Atop the Broken Universal Clock
by Kimmychu
Summary: In the aftermath of his brother's nearfatal beating, Danny must deal with the consequences of his past ... and finds himself losing the battle little by little. Will Flack be strong enough to be Danny's anchor in his darkest days? DannyFlack friendship.
1. Chapter 1

**Atop the Broken Universal Clock**

Fandom: CSI:NY

Author: Kimmychu

Rating: FRM (but it'll probably go up later)

Pairing: Danny/Flack (slash yet to be determined)

Content Warning: Violence, language, disturbing imagery

Spoilers: Set after 'Run Silent, Run Deep', so spoilers for any episode previous to that

Summary: In the aftermath of his brother's near-fatal beating, Danny must deal with the consequences of his past ... and finds himself losing the battle little by little. Will Flack be strong enough to be Danny's anchor in his darkest days?

Disclaimer: Nope, characters still don't belong to me. But, man, I sure wanna give Danny a big hug after what happened in RSRD.

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Author's Notes: Hey everyone! Here's my second _CSI:NY _story, and it sure isn't a humor-centric one like the first. No, we're talking _major_ angst aaaaaaall the way. Of course, if you're a DannyFlack fan like me, then this might just be the post-RSRD story for you. This chapter alone already has major spoilers for the episode. I'm not too sure at the moment whether there'll even be any overtly slash scenes at all, but there's definitely gonna be lots more suspense and action! The title of the story is taken from a poem by _Sylvia Plath_, entitled _Doomsday_. By the way, this story is completely unrelated to _To DD or Not to DD_, although there might be certain non-canon details I carry over. You'll know what I mean if you've read that story.

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** Chapter 1**

The tears continued to flow long after the fleeting sensation of Mac's consoling embrace withered away, after the man was already gone.

The expanse of his chilled, numb skin barely contained the torment poisoning his soul. His weary body was sporadically wracked by muted sobs, and once in a while, he sniffled audibly and moistly to clear his sinuses. The blazing droplets trailed hot rivulets down the icy rigidness that was his face, dripping off his jaw to turn into small, dark stains on his trousers. He didn't make an effort to dry his eyes. There were a thousand more tears flooding out every time he tried to halt them. Eventhough he hadn't eaten a thing since yesterday evening, he was twisted by the overwhelming urge to throw up right there in front of everyone who was lingering at the back of the hospital.

Over and over until the pain inside him was purged.

The wooden bench beneath his curled hands and quivering thighs was about the only thing holding him in place in reality. Before that, it was Flack's arm around his slumped shoulders as he stood at Louie's bedside, grieving for a lost brother who was neither dead or alive. And after his parents' visit and his agonizing confession to Louie, it was Mac's paternal grip that kept him from imploding. Now, he couldn't even contemplate moving an inch of his body from where he sat, in the trepidation he was simply going to collapse where he stood and never get up.

Through the haziness, he could feel curious and sympathetic eyes on him whenever people moved past him. A great part of him wanted to scream at them to stop pitying him and leave him the fuck alone. The rest of him wanted them to just sit with him and hold him and tell him everything was going to be alright.

But of course, all these people could do was look through him and then walk away.

He was a phantom.

He died the second the doctor approached him and informed him the chances of his brother Louie awakening, much less recovering, was next to _zero_.

The low droning of a car engine broke through his daze. A car door opened, then closed with a slam. Heavy footsteps became louder and louder, until they stopped beside him.

"Danny."

He felt a large, strong hand wrap itself around one side of his neck. It was his new support now. He could let go of the bench.

He wasn't going to fall. Not yet.

Danny rubbed at his swollen eyes, blinking and squinting upwards at the tall man whose presence grounded him. Flack's lips were drawn into a thin, worried line. He appeared as immaculate and cool as he usually was, but his blue eyes told a different story. Danny couldn't recall the last time he'd ever seen Flack's eyes so wet.

"C'mon, buddy." Flack's deep timbre was uncommonly husky. "Let's get ya home, okay?'

Danny stared in baffled silence at his friend.

_Home? What was home?_

Two hands shifted under his arms and easily lifted him to his feet. He stood there, shivering from a wintriness he couldn't seem to escape, that burned from within him. Flack's warmth seeped into him, slowly but surely bringing him out of his internal ice age. He looked helplessly at the taller man, unable to verbally communicate to his friend he couldn't move a muscle. It took him a while to realize Flack had bodily escorted him to the car, one sinewy arm around his chest while the other was extended out to open the passenger door. Flack placed him in the seat with a tenderness that made fresh tears spring to Danny's sore eyes.

He didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve any of the kindness from his friends or his family or anybody. It was _his_ fault his brother was technically already dead. And everyone knew it. They just didn't have the guts to say it to his face.

There were two clicks as Flack fastened Danny's seat belt, then his own. Danny didn't have to glance at Flack to know the other man was gazing anxiously at him. For some unknown reason, Danny didn't mind the scrutiny. Flack was different from other people. Flack was his friend. His _true_ friend. Someone whom he could trust.

Someone who would never lie to him.

Flack let loose a soft, shuddering sigh. Danny expected him to ask the standard questions. There was none. Flack started the car and headed for the main road back to Danny's apartment. At least, that was where Danny assumed they was going. He honestly didn't give a damn where he went anymore. All he could see in his mind was Louie lying on that hospital bed, bruised beyond recognition and beyond hearing.

Fifteen years. It took him fifteen fucking years to go above his pride and say to his brother's face that he loved him.

Fifteen years _too late_.

"We're gonna go get ourselves somethin' ta eat, and then we'll go back to yer place, 'kay? Bet ya must be hungry."

Danny's stomach spasmed painfully at the word _eat_. He furtively pressed his forearm against his abdomen, hoping Flack wouldn't figure out how nauseous he really felt. He sensed Flack's piercing eyes on him again.

"Getcha somethin' _light_, if that's what ya want. Yer parents still at the hospital?"

Danny shook his head minutely.

His parents only stayed for a half hour. Seconds before their arrival earlier that evening, Flack, who'd been in the room with him, was paged and had to depart for yet another homicide scene. Flack was vehement in returning to Danny's side as soon as possible, promising to drive him back later if he wished so. When his parents entered, the homicide detective greeted them politely, gave his condolences and left them in private. Danny yearned terribly for his best friend to stay, but there were some things that only family could face alone. His father, Alessandro Messer, was stoic and quiet throughout the entire visit, looking like a much older and hardened version of Louie. His mother, Edith, was the complete opposite. Her every emotion flitted across her lined and benevolent features as she cried openly next to her older son's bedside, her blue eyes turned red by her anguish.

The first thing she'd done the second she laid eyes on Louie was to go to Danny and envelop him in an almost excruciatingly tight hug, running her hands repetitively over his head and back and murmuring hoarsely to him in Italian. Danny couldn't speak a word of the language, but his heart understood exactly what she was saying to him. She rarely hugged him, even during his childhood, so it was also exceedingly awkward. He had no idea what to do except stand there with his arms locked at his sides, his head bowed over his mother's shuddering shoulder. If it wasn't for his dad's presence, he might have broken down and cried there and then with her too. His father had to pry her arms from around him by force after ten minutes passed.

That was when she snapped, attacking her husband with a deluge of furious, frenzied words in their family's mother tongue, so close to slapping and clawing at him. Danny caught _Tanglewood_ and _Sassone_ and his brother's name as well as his dad's and they were enough to make his body shiver uncontrollably from the inside out. His father merely endured it like the tough guy he was, in silence and concealed, broiling anger. Danny fervently prayed his dad wasn't going to take it out on his mother afterwards like he always did, when he got into one of his drunken rages again. He was quite certain his father was going to hit the bottle hard tonight.

In the end, his mother's fury drained out of her as swiftly as it struck, leaving her weak and powerless to do anything else but let loose a wail only an inconsolable mother could. Edith Messer spent the rest of that half hour stroking Louie's head and chattering mindlessly to him in Italian, the resignation in her broken voice so sharp they cut Danny like a knife. Alessandro Messer did nothing more than look at his older son on the bed for a couple of seconds before staring at a spot on the wall near Louie's head. His dad probably expected something like this to happen years ago.

_When you lived by the gun, be prepared to die by the gun_. Both his brother and father lived by that motto. While his dad may have eluded a ghastly ending up to now, Louie wasn't so far off from turning the adage into a prophecy come true. Danny's balled fist itched to smash into his father's face. His misery-riddled mind couldn't comprehend how the guy who sired him could be so … _indifferent_. His firstborn was _dying_. And all the guy did was stand there like it didn't matter if his older son kicked the bucket or not.

Danny was intensely relieved once they were gone and he was alone with his older brother. He and Louie never did get along with their parents. Hell, he never got along much with Louie either, as much as they loved one another.

And what _was_ love?

After thirty-two years of walking the earth, having his face shoved into its dirt countless times and even having seen his blood splatter on it more than he liked, Danny Messer was still none the wiser about the foreign sentiment.

"'Kay, we're here."

Flack gently ran his hand across Danny's scalp. To Danny, it was like an iron brand that left a streak of fire from his temples all the way down to the back of his head.

"Danny."

Flack's hand squeezed the back of his neck. Danny made a high, non-committal sound. He kept staring forward into the night's darkness with glazed, puffy eyes. Without his spectacles, all he saw were globs of light from the lamp posts lining the street, blackness and shadowed, bulky shapes on both sides of the road that were most likely other vehicles. The moisture blurring his vision didn't improve his sight much either.

A draft blew into the car as Flack got out. It dried the dampness on his cheeks. Danny absent-mindedly licked at his dry, cracked lips. How odd that his eyes and nose were literally clogged wet, and yet, his mouth, lips and throat were parched like the desert.

Flack opened the door on his side and reached in to unclip his seatbelt. Danny unconsciously inhaled deeply when Flack's neck was mere inches away from his face. Flack hated wearing cologne or anything close to it, so whatever Danny got a whiff of was Flack's natural scent. He could smell it even through his congested sinuses. It reminded Danny of kind smiles and homemade apple pie and clear, blue skies above lush plains. It reminded Danny of a place where he could go to only in his imagination. A place that simply couldn't exist in a life such as his.

Again, Danny felt Flack's hands under his arms. He buried his face in Flack's smooth neck and encircled his arms tightly over Flack's shoulders, willing his tired body to absorb Flack's body heat that felt as searing as the sun. Flack didn't say anything about Danny's sudden, wordless plea for physical solace. The homicide detective wrapped his own arms around Danny's shivering upper body without hesitation, carefully pulling him out and getting him to his feet.

Outside, Danny's shivers worsened. His breath quickened. He began losing feeling in his extremities. His brain was yelling at him that he was gradually going into shock, but somehow, he had forgotten just what he had to do to treat it. Flack propped him up at the waist, bending down quickly to pick up a plastic bag filled with what looked like cartons of takeaway food. At the involuntary imagery of his favorite food in his head, he clamped his mouth shut, swallowing down the sour bile that rose in his throat.

The last thing Flack needed was for him to hork up whatever was in his churning belly onto the homicide detective.

Flack's arm was immediately back around his waist, clutching him close to Flack's stability and strength. Danny kept his eyesight trained on the ground beneath his unsteady feet the whole way from Flack's car to his apartment. He had to virtually stare at his feet to get them moving step by step. Up onto each tread of the short staircase, through the apartment building entrance, into the elevator, out the elevator on the fourth floor and finally, before the plain, dark red door that was his apartment's front door. Danny was trying very hard to remember precisely when Flack had stopped on the journey to buy food. He was getting frightened by the thought he was so out of it, he was losing brief spans of time and memory.

Flack put the plastic bag on the floor and slipped a hand into the right pocket of his trousers, searching for his wallet. Danny always retained his home key on a chain attached to it. Flack knew this very well since the guy'd crashed overnight at Danny's place more times than the CSI could call to mind, typically after a long night painting the town red with hoops and drinks. Typically, Flack would be his energetic, snarky self, pushing all of Danny's buttons in just the right way and making him laugh like no one else could. Tonight, Flack was utterly hushed, visage haggard and aged far ahead of its years. His movements, though agile as ever, were measured and laden with some unseen, grave burden.

Flack guided Danny through the apartment door and locked it behind them. Danny could sense the chilly numbness spread from his hands and feet towards his torso and head. It was like he was gradually turning to dead stone after seeing the Medusa that was the tangle of tubes and wires threading into his brother's damaged body. By the time they got near Danny's battered sofa in the living area, Flack had to carry his full weight, his dragging feet creating a screeching sound on the lacquered floor.

"Just sit here, okay, Danny? I'll be right back with some hot water and food. Just sit here." Flack stroked his head once more. It made him recall how Louie used to do the same, when they were still boys and thought the world was their playground and that they were going to be kings. His fingers twisted stiffly around the cloth of his suede jacket. His blue eyes scrunched up. No, he was _not_ going to cry anymore. He had _enough_.

The only light switched on in the entire place was in the kitchen. The stark noises of Flack taking out mugs and other utensils echoed loudly in the silent apartment. More sounds of Flack opening the cartons of food. Danny couldn't smell anything obvious, which meant it probably wasn't of the Chinese or Italian fare that he would have enjoyed in any other circumstance. He was grateful for that. The chances were big he'd have vomited all over his living room floor the moment he smelled anything remotely oily or pungent.

In the empty screen of the television in front of the sofa, Danny could see a dim reflection of himself. The television set was close enough that he saw the downturn of his compressed lips, the dark rings around his eyes, the unkempt condition of his clothes. The harsh sorrow in his old, cerulean eyes. Whoever that man was mirrored in the television screen, it was someone he no longer recognized.

An unexpected, alarming crash was heard outside. It was immediately followed by enraged yelling between some men in the distance. It was all Danny's muddled brain needed to leap back in time fifteen years ago to 1991, to that fated day when he lost more than just a brother's affection.

"_Hey, go off!"_

_A rough wallop into his face. _

"_Hit the road! Geddoutta here, hit the road, D!"_

_A brutal shove to his chest. A hard tumble to the coarse tarmac._

"_You embarrass me in front of my boys! Geddoutta here, you're a DISGRACE!"_

"Danny?"

Long fingers apprehensively pat his cheek.

"Danny, _talk _to me, buddy. Y-you're _hyperventilating_." Dependable, sturdy hands on his shoulders, shaking him not unkindly. "_Snap outta it_."

Danny's memory rolodex zoomed forward in time to tonight.

_Mac, standing before him, mien cool and yet, compassionate._

"_How's your brother?"_

_Rapid, jerky shake of his head, throat blocked, eyes tearing up appallingly. God, it hurts so bad._

"_Lindsay told me you listened to … the tape."_

_Head up high as could be. A sniffle or two. Mac appearing an indistinct figure._

"_We did everything we could forensically, but … in the end, it was Louie who saved you."_

"Danny, _please_, you're _scarin'_ me." Flack's hands were cupping his wet face now, but all he could see was his one and only brother, covered in his own blood and being wheeled into the hospital ER.

Mac's face loomed large in his recollection.

"_It was Louie who saved you."_

Blood. There was so much _blood_.

The acidic bile that had been forced down his gullet all this time shot straight up into his mouth, overpowering his sense of smell and taste and causing his nausea to come to the forefront. Danny smacked a trembling hand across his closed mouth, lurching to his feet and rushing precariously for the bathroom nearby. He didn't even feel the pain of his shoulder slamming into the side of the bathroom's doorway, or the agony of his knees cracking severely on the ceramic-tiled floor.

Danny's body convulsed violently as he heaved into the toilet bowl. He thought his unfilled body would come up with nothing but liquid, but an awful, acerbic substance that was sickly brown in color splattered into the water anyway. The sight and stench of it made Danny gag and retch twice as much. More of the stuff came out, and then, the vomiting fit diminished with intermittent bouts of throwing up clear fluid.

Danny hazily felt a warm, damp towel being rubbed all over his face, especially around his mouth and eyes. Somebody was crushing him in a tight embrace, speaking softly into his hair, holding his icy, deadened hands. Somewhere far away, Danny heard a man sobbing and bawling dissonantly, rambling in a fractured voice. Another man was whispering in a familiar but shaky tone, saying everything was going to be alright and that he was going to take care of him and never abandon him.

"The-they beat him up r-really _bad_, Don … th-there was-was so much _blood_, an-and I tried ta _call _his n-_name_, wake him up … and he-he was covered in s-so much _blood_ …and-and I-I tried ta tell him I-I _loved_ him … they b-beat him up really _bad_, Don."

"_Shhhh_, it's okay, it's gonna be _okay_, _ssshh_ …" The other man's low voice was beginning to break too.

"I l-_love_ my brother, I don't want him to _die_. _I don't want him to die_." Danny felt scorching rivulets of moisture running down his cheeks. He wondered if they were coming from the other man who was whispering all those words of comfort.

"They're gonna do _everything _they can, Danny, the _best.__Sssshhh_."

A nuzzle of someone's face into his hair. Perhaps even a kiss.

"Let it go … lemme take care of you."

Danny sat there on the tiled bathroom of his apartment and permitted himself to be held, leaning his face against the solid chest of the person who embraced him. He felt totally and utterly void within. The crying man's acute sobs were all that resonated in the emptiness, even after he plunged into a deep sleep filled with anarchic dreams of pouring red and angry, brown eyes and shattering hearts.

It would be many, many days of bleakness and nights of remorse before Danny realized that the wailing, broken man had been himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Atop the Broken Universal Clock**

Fandom: CSI:NY

Author: Kimmychu

Rating: FRM (but it'll probably go up later)

Pairing: Danny/Flack (slash yet to be determined)

Content Warning: Violence, language, disturbing imagery

Spoilers: Set after 'Run Silent, Run Deep', so spoilers for any episode previous to that

Summary: In the aftermath of his brother's near-fatal beating, Danny must deal with the consequences of his past ... and finds himself losing the battle little by little. Will Flack be strong enough to be Danny's anchor in his darkest days?

Disclaimer: Nope, characters still don't belong to me. But, man, I sure wanna give Danny a big hug after what happened in RSRD.

OoooooooooooooooooooooooooO

Author's Notes: I do not know why, but this chapter went hella long, heh. Anyways, it should also give you all a good idea of what's to come for our favorite detective boys. Thanks for all the reviews so far, I appreciate them! By the way … in chapter 1? The word 'hork' _was_ meant to be funny, heheheh.

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** Chapter 2**

The obligation of building Sing Sing prison fell to a man named Captain Elam Lynds in 1825. He was a prison warden from New York who believed a coordinated system of silence was the only way for convicts to return to a normal life of righteousness.

It was a great irony one of the most notorious, repressive penitentiaries in the United States would be built in an area called Mt. Pleasant. The name Sing Sing, which was also the name of a village nearby the prison, derived from the Indian phrase which, interpreted, meant _stone upon stone_. It was a very fitting name, since prisoners during the nineteenth century had to cut marble stones to make up the walls of Sing Sing. They virtually constructed their own cells throughout months of backbreaking labor, chambers only seven feet long and three feet wide and six feet seven inches high. It was only after hundreds more convicts were locked up that there were more construction jobs undertaken to improve things.

Subsequent to that, Sing Sing was still very much a manmade hell on earth. In acknowledgment to Captain Lynds' ideals, none of the prisoners were allowed to communicate with each other in any way whatsoever. They ate in silence, toiled in silence, slept in silence, hell, even _crapped_ in silence. _Existed_ in silence. Violation of this system resulted in instant and usually severe punishment. One of the most famous torture methods was _The Bath_. A convict would be strapped to a chair, and a bowl-like apparatus would be fastened around the inmate's head so that water could rise above his mouth and even his nose. At times, the water would fall on the prisoner's head from a great distance, causing pain as well as suffocate him. Then there was also flogging, where some inmates were beaten till they were at death's door.

Nowadays, Sing Sing housed more than two thousand prisoners and had roughly a thousand people in its employment. It had even been used by Hollywood as a backdrop for a number of movies that helped form its current frightening representation of violence and suffering in the public mind. Of course, the penitentiary today was hardly anything like the original prison constructed centuries ago, nor were any of the cruel torture techniques practiced any longer.

A very fortunate thing for a certain gangster who'd recently become another of Sing Sing's numerous inhabitants.

Sonny Sassone had aged a great deal in the one year since he was first investigated by Detective Taylor and his team over the brutal death of a Tanglewood Boy wannabe. The bags under his shallow, aloof eyes were heavier, the balding spot on his head more austere. His gut was no longer as flat as it used to be. There were scars where they weren't any before, but those, he'd earned them fair and square. He was hardly going to complain about any of them. The other guys couldn't even complain about theirs if they wanted to. Dead people didn't talk.

Sonny hardly had the need to complain about his life either. He was living it like a god, with so much cash to burn he could use hundred dollar bills to light his cigarettes every day and still be a millionaire at the end of the day. Not to mention the pretty whores he got to bang and the drugs and alcohol he got at the snap of his fingers.

Then that sonofabitch CSI detective who didn't know when to quit had to make good on his promise and fuck up his entire life.

No. No, it wasn't that Detective Taylor who yanked out that vital, little cog in his wheel of power.

It was that stupid bastard _Louie Messer_. Hearing that name alone drove him to roar like a livid, rabid lion in his desolate, ill-green cell at night. That traitorous little _shit_. He had the nerve to wear a _wire_ and _frame_ him. Sonny zealously hoped his former Tanglewood brother wasn't going to die. Oh no, death was too _easy_. After ordering the guy to be beaten _that_ bad? He wanted Louie to exist for the rest of his days as a crippled vegetable who'd be incapable of anything except lie there waiting for death.

By _his_ hand.

Only a few months into his sentence, Sonny had transformed back to his old self. The insane, stone-hard killer he'd been fifteen years ago and not the flabby, lazy bum he was right before he was captured for his deeds. On his first day of incarceration, he shaved off all the hair on his head. It gave him an air of menace that wouldn't have been as blatant if he'd left his thinning hair the way it was. After a couple of weeks of working out at the penitentiary gym and getting into nasty brawls with other inmates, he had regained his muscular physique plus many more new scars.

The longest one ran from his left flank up to his sternum, still healing and distended but already sealed up. Another convict had bad blood with his family, something about a Sassone murdering somebody the guy loved. Sonny couldn't be bothered jack shit to remember that kinda crap. The guy was a complete stranger. It was probably his old man or one of his cousins who did the killing in this case, but Sonny wasn't about to let himself get offed by some loser who was lamenting over a loved one's demise. Only fools and weaklings allowed their _feelings_ to get the better of them. The scuffle between them lasted mere seconds. Sonny had to admit the guy'd been fast, succeeding in hooking that custom-made shank into his flesh like that.

Sonny was faster. He had gotten so strong, all it took was a single smash of his heel into the asshole's nose to take the guy down for good. One of his favorite moves, driving the shards of the nostril bones straight into the brain. He would have liked to watch the man suffer a lot more, but hey, he had a whole buffet to pick from every morning when he woke up and his cell door opened.

Another scar zigzagged up his lower jaw below his right ear towards the corner of his right eye. That was an older one he received on his third day at Sing Sing. He'd been careless. No matter, he had rectified the problem with a nice, clean slice across the guy's face from forehead to chin with the jagged edge of a food tray. The other prisoners weren't so foolish to underestimate him after that. He wasn't the head of the Tanglewood Boys for nothing.

The scar created an asymmetrical lopsidedness to his toothy, callous grin. He picked up the phone and spoke through the handset, staring at the person on the other side of the Perspex glass with something akin to excitement.

"So?"

"Fourteen."

The young man who sat opposite Sonny couldn't have been more than twenty-five years old, appearance-wise. He bore the handsome, classical features that was commonly seen on the male statues from the Renaissance era; double-lidded, large eyes, aquiline nose, full lips and high cheekbones that most people in the world would kill for. His thick, dark brown hair was tied into a ponytail that suspended down to the middle of his back, revealing a smooth, high forehead well-proportioned to the rest of his face. He was also attired in a black t-shirt and jeans that didn't disclose much about him, apart from the fact he was neat and had a lean, wiry body like an athlete's.

If Sonny didn't know better, he'd have branded the kid one of them pretty, metrosexual fags who were scared shitless of getting their nails chipped or their underwear dirty. However, Sonny was no idiot. He'd taken one look into the man's eyes and saw himself in the deceptively vacant, green orbs. After their first encounter, during a gathering of the big bosses in the business at the Sassone residence over eight years ago, Sonny got to see firsthand exactly what his future protégé was capable of.

As sick a bastard as Sonny Sassone was, even _he_ had nightmares for weeks of the little girl laying on the bloody snow with her head decapitated and her tiny body slashed open from collarbones to groin. Sonny had both the brains and the guts to take the guy under his wing to become the finest youngblood of the Tanglewood Boys.

"Good. _Really good_. Ya do me _proud_, Ace." Sonny cackled. Ace wasn't even the guy's real name. Sonny had no idea what it was, neither was he bothered to know. The important thing to Sonny was that Ace was loyal to _him_. "Where?"

"He was in Washington DC. Found him at the Washington Court Hotel on Capitol Hill." Ace's voice was similar to smooth toffee. Dark, deep and it flowed over a person until it was all one desired to hear. The timbre never changed, neither was there any conspicuous accent. "He screamed a lot. Like you wanted."

Sonny was in a very happy mood. "Ya do me proud, kiddo," he said once more. "Didya send the _parts_ like I told ya?"

"Yes. His wife and daughter should receive the parcel today."

"Good, _very good!_" Sonny cackled again. "So, how 'bout _fifteen?"_

"She is in Manhattan, working for a newly established … adult entertainment service."

"Still the fuckin' _prostitute bitch _that she is, _ah?_" His smile rapidly vanished. Sonny thrust an angry finger in Ace's direction, scowling like a gargoyle. "_Take yer time with her_. Make sure she feels _everythin'_ until the moment she _goes_, ya hear me?"

"As you wish."

Sonny sniffed, then flicked his nose with a thumb.

"And what 'bout _him?_" His thin lips twisted into a hateful sneer.

Ace's mien remained expressionless, like that of a hypnotic snake. "Coma. No change."

Sonny huffed. "Stupid fucker. Nobody leaves the Tanglewood Boys. _Nobody_." Sonny tilted forward in his seat, his voice dropping.

"You save Messer for _last_, ya understand? After fifteen, you can do whatever ya want with the other four. But _Messer _…"

Sonny's eyes grew fiery with abhorrence.

"_Tear him apart_."

For the first time, Ace displayed the closest thing to emotion on his appealing facial features. The tips of his full lips curled up into a diminutive smile. He resembled a king cobra snake, waiting patiently to launch its deathblow of venom.

"As you wish."

Sonny slouched back on the chair, pleased with his protégé's reply. "Good, I'm _countin'_ on ya, Ace. Make him _suffer_. Make 'em _all_ suffer."

Ace nodded.

"And tell the other boys that I'm doin' just fine in here. Tell 'em the boss _ain't_ gonna be here forever. _I'll be back_."

Their brief conversation ended with the prison guard behind Sonny informing them time was up. Sonny watched Ace leaving the room, a smirk on his hard-bitten face. He played it cool, replacing the phone handset onto the wall and sprawling on his seat like he wasn't worried.

The truth was, like he'd said to Detective Taylor, he _really _wasn't.

The dumb bastards who locked him up figured they'd finally caught the beast and put him behind bars so everyone was safe now. But they were wrong, so very wrong. The _real_ monster was the one who'd just left to return to the outside world, preparing to devour his next victim. And the next and the next … until somebody mighty enough stopped him.

Sonny guffawed to himself as he was ushered back to his cell. Here he was, with a free room and a cozy, little bed and free food, and he felt better and tougher than he had in years. Out there right now, was the most fucked up sonofabitch he ever knew, doing all the dirty work for him while all _he_ had to do was lounge around with his new lackeys, play poker and watch television for the latest news on the Tanglewood youngblood's horrific acts.

He lay on the green blanket of his bed, surreptitiously pulling out a cigarette from under the mattress and lighting it up with a match. He made a mental note to have a nice talk with that fatass coward of a prison warden for a bottle of wine when Ace finished his job.

Yep. If Sonny Sassone didn't get to enjoy his last days on earth in freedom, he was going to make damn sure _none_ of his enemies did.

OoooooooooooooooooooooooooO

The little boy's greyed-out eyes stared almost accusingly at Mac.

The child's corpse lay on its back, arms and legs straightened out vertically while the head was turned to one side. The position made the body appear like that of a toy action figure, like one of those old school, painted toy soldiers with a rifle affixed to them. There was a rotting leaf in the blonde waves of the boy's curly hair. Mac's eyes hazel kept drifting to it. There were more leaves on the ground around and under the body, some brown and dried up, some still green.

There were flies buzzing around the body, some crawling their way along the edges of the gigantic, serrated wound that stretched from the boy's neck to his lower abdomen. More swarmed on the exposed internal organs that, from Mac's initial inspection, looked as if the murderer had hacked at them, taken out the liver and heart and then chucked them back in again. Mac noted teeth indentations in what was left of the heart. He was going to have to make a cast from that to see if they matched with any dental records on file. Part of the liver was missing too; from the marks left in the organ, it was highly possible the killer had _eaten_ some ofit.

"Brandon Hall. Seven years old, parents reported him missin' two nights ago," Flack said, staring at his black notebook. "A jogger came out for his usual run this mornin' in Central Park, found a long trail of blood leadin' up to the body lyin' here next to the path."

Mac could tell Flack was doing everything he could to not look at the corpse. He didn't blame the young, grey-suited homicide detective at all. This particular murder victim was one of the most gruesome ones Mac had ever come across in his whole _life_. That included his years in the Marines when he actively served in the Middle East. Only Mac's training stopped him from pinching his nose shut. In the heat of summer, the stench of rotting flesh was _horrendous_. The coagulating pool of blood around the body didn't help matters either.

Mac waved one arm around to chase away the flies. Stella did the same, frowning deeply as she knelt on the other side of the body. Her red lips were downturned, brows furrowed. Mac was inwardly concerned for her and had thought twice about assigning her onto this case. Ghastly murders involving children always got to Stella in the worst ways.

"The parents claim their son was kidnapped while they were havin' coffee downtown in Little Italy. One minute he was goin' to the counter to order another drink fer himself, the next minute, he was gone," Flack continued. He flipped a page on his notebook. "No ransom note or phone call." Flack closed it. "Money wasn't what the kidnap was all 'bout."

Mac examined the little boy's slack and pallid face. "No, it probably wasn't."

He noted how it seemed like the boy's facial features had been arranged to make him appear as if he was smiling and enjoyed what he had been experiencing. That creeped Mac out so much more than the dreadful state of the corpse. It made shivers go up his spine just thinking of the type of human being capable of committing such atrocity upon an innocent, small child.

"I think whoever kidnapped the child had the intention of killing him from the start. _This_," - he gestured over the body with his hands - " … is what he wanted."

Stella photographed the corpse and its immediate surroundings. She was extremely quiet. When she lowered the camera, Mac could see the wrath in her large, green eyes.

"We're going to _get _this sonofabitch, Mac." Stella shook her head, red lips even more downturned. Her eyes were glassy. "No parent in the world deserves to see their child die this way. No one."

Mac couldn't have agreed more.

The two CSIs spent the next half hour processing the body and the scene, collecting precious evidence to be investigated later at the labs. Mac didn't object as Stella gently brushed her gloved hand over the dead child's eyes to close them. Mac was going to remember that lifeless, empty gaze for some time to come.

"Hey, Danny."

Flack's greeting prompted Mac to glance up and see the homicide detective wave at the advancing young CSI. Danny was dressed in his usual white wifebeater, a red collared shirt, and brown jacket on top. Added with the long CSI coat, Danny was covered in _four _layers of cloth. Mac raised an eyebrow. Whoa, wasn't the man _roasting_ underneath all that?

"Sorry. Traffic jam." Danny stood next to Flack, who was about a dozen feet away from them and was avidly staring at the CSI. Danny shrugged.

"It's okay, Danny. Stella and I have already started processing the body. " Mac motioned with his head at the dark, red path of blood that began at the corpse's head. It interweaved in a curvy line on the leaves and grass of the park land for at least forty feet into the distance. "You can process that."

Danny's gratitude at not being delegated to process the corpse was palpable in his blue eyes. Stella wasn't the only one who was deeply affected by brutal slayings of children. Danny nodded and swiftly walked past Mac and Stella, eyes momentarily flickering onto the body then away.

When Danny was out of earshot, Mac caught Flack's eye and said, "Go with him."

Flack followed Danny without pause.

"Did you notice how many _clothes_ he was wearing?" Stella asked as she carefully swabbed at an unknown, whitish substance sticking to the victim's lower lip. "I've got nothing except a short-sleeved top, and I'm _hot_."

Mac wasn't quite sure how to answer.

Ever since the entire mess with the Tanglewood Boys and Danny's older brother nearly beaten to death, Mac had been very worried about the young CSI's wellbeing. Almost five months had already passed. Louie Messer was still in a deep coma, although his vitals stabilized a week into his admittance at the hospital. He was hanging on by a thread, but that thread was staying strong.

Mac had been glad to be there for the younger detective when Danny finally broke down and cried rivers that evening outside the hospital. In a way, Mac felt as though a great weight had lifted off _both_ of them while he held the weeping man in his arms and on his shoulder. It was difficult for Mac to acknowledge it, but he had felt somewhat guilty for being so harsh on Danny for the Minhaus subway shooting, as well as pushing his protégé away when what he should have actually done was give Danny a chance to open up and _trust _him. It was unfortunate it had taken such a devastating incident, especially on Danny's side, for them to truly begin mending their bridges. However, Mac understood things were far from repaired. Some things took a whole lifetime to heal.

A month after the arrest of Sonny Sassone, Mac had thought that Danny was bearing things rather well. Danny had taken compassionate leave of three weeks to spend time at his brother's bedside, just talking to him and holding his hand and letting Louie know his loved ones hadn't forgotten him. By the end of that third week, Danny had insisted on returning to work full-time, visiting his brother during his off-hours. Mac permitted him to jump back onto a full-time schedule in the middle of the fourth week.

Danny seemed like his usual self, except for the darker rings around his lidded, blue eyes and the lessening of that patented cat-like grin of his. It was understandable why the man didn't feel like smiling much. A guy didn't have much to laugh about if his only brother might die at any given moment. Two months since Louie's beating and a month into work, it hit Mac hard that Danny was slowly turning into a shadow of the person he once was.

Once deemed the supreme drama queen as a joke by Stella, Danny was now so quiet and reclusive, people wouldn't notice he was there until he actually said something. Even _that _was becoming rare. When he used to stand up to Mac if something didn't go right by him, he no longer did so. Instead, he would meekly acquiesce to every order and shuffle off to do his job without interacting with anyone unless absolutely necessary. Part of Mac was pleased at Danny's new working ethics of obeying commands for once. Another part of him screamed at him that these new behaviors were tremendously bad signs something was wrong with his protégé.

It had to be Stella who was the one destined to point out to him the most obvious sign of something being amiss.

Three months after Danny returned to full-time work, Stella, Hawkes and Mac had been in the break room during lunch hour. Hawkes was devotedly watching some young pop singer prancing around on the television set, commenting on her fashion sense and the choreography of the dance along with Stella. The discussion somehow evolved into a debate over who had the best dress sense in the lab, and Stella highlighted the fact Danny had significantly changed his tastes in clothes. At seeing the baffled expressions on both men's faces, Stella pointed out how Danny only wore long-sleeved shirts that were fairly loose and almost always had a thick jacket on no matter how hot it got.

Her observation struck Mac deeply. His gut instinct told him this was something noteworthy he had to look into. For the next two months after that discussion in the breakroom, he took care to study Danny's physical appearance whenever he got the opportunity. The longer he scrutinized the young CSI, the more certain he was of what Danny was putting himself through, and how hazardous it was for it to drag on.

The only problem was, Mac had no idea whatsoever on how to approach Danny about it. Not without causing more distress to the young man than he already had to deal with.

"If he's _ill_, Mac, he shouldn't be working," Stella said to him in the present day. "I hate to say it, but he looks like _crap_."

Mac sighed. "He's doing the best he can, Stella. And he's a _grown man_. He's not a child who can't think for himself."

"People don't _lose_ their problems the moment they hit adulthood, you know. Just because he's an adult doesn't mean he knows how to confront _every_ dilemma and solve them all like some wizard genius."

Stella gazed pointedly at him. "_You_ know as well as I do that _something's_ wrong with Danny."

Mac sighed again, looking in Danny's direction. The CSI was hunched over on the ground, intently picking up evidence from the bloody grass with some forceps and carefully putting it into a clear, plastic bag. Flack stood at a distance from Danny, hands in his jacket pockets, silently watching with a concerned look on his handsome face.

Stella sat back on her heels and huffed. "I'm just saying … I tried talking to him, but he won't say a word to me." Her usually sparkling eyes were sad. "I don't know how to get past these _walls_ he's built around himself. I know something's wrong, and I don't know how to help him."

Mac's mien reflected his empathy. "Maybe I shouldn't have let him come back to work so quickly."

"No, I'm glad you _did_."

Mac glanced at Stella.

Stella gesticulated in Danny's direction. "_Look_ at him, he's _skin and bones!_"

Mac lithely got to his feet after he collected the last of the evidence and packed his equipment. He took off his gloves and waited until Stella was done before replying.

"How do you tell a man that he's _starving_ himself to death and everybody knows it but _him?_"

He and Stella stood to one side as the corpse was loaded into a black body bag and onto the coroner's van. Stella gripped his hand in her bare ones.

"I don't know, Mac." She smiled despondently at him. "If he's like this now … what will happen if his brother _does _pass away from his injuries?"

Mac could only squeeze Stella's hands and stare at Danny finishing his own gathering of evidence. Stare at the gauntness of Danny's face, at how much more prominent the Italian nose was, at how angular the cheekbones were. Or how lackluster the once luxuriant, brown hair was.

Mac didn't have the heart to tell Stella that, at that point, the comatose Louie could very well outlive his younger brother.

OoooooooooooooooooooooooooO

Flack paid the hot dog vendor for his light meal, then bit into the bread and sausage. The saltiness of the mustard made his mouth water. He was so hungry he consumed the hot dog in three huge mouthfuls. Okay, if he could get a nice, big cup of something cold and sweet, that would be perfect. Half his brain was still going, "_Eeeew_," at the morning's homicide case, but the other half was going, "_More foooood!_" in light of the first hot dog of the day disappearing so quick into his stomach.

Boy, that bigass organ in his skull sure was one complex piece of organic mechanism.

"Hey, Danny. You haven't eaten anythin'." He nudged the quiet man lightly on the arm.

"_Hnnh_." Danny stood there with his arms crossed over his chest, eyes behind his silver spectacles glazed over. He appeared to be lost in thought.

Flack nudged him again, frowning. "Danny. _Eat_."

Danny blinked and shook off whatever he was brooding about. "Nah. Not hungry."

Flack stared at his friend's drawn face for a minute. "Ya sure?"

Danny suddenly scowled and snapped at him, "Yeah, I _don't_ wanna eat, _a'right? _Gedoff my _case!_"

Then, Danny's shoulders slumped, his expression crestfallen. "I-I'm _sorry_, Don. I didn't mean ta bite like that." Danny attempted to send him a reassuring smile. "I had a big breakfast, 'kay? I'm _fine_."

Flack knew it was bullcrap the instant Danny said it. One, Danny didn't even look him in the eye when he said it. Two, when everybody else was wearing nothing but thin shirts and trousers due to the summer warmth, his pal here was wearing three layers of clothes.

And still looked like he was _cold_.

He stared meaningfully at Danny. Danny resolutely kept his gaze somewhere on the pavement near Flack's feet. Flack's hands balled into fists. The fact Danny was avoiding eye contact riled him up bad. Whenever they talked, they _always_ looked each other in the eye, and even when they _didn't _talk, they still looked at each other like it was the most natural thing in the world. It was like some innate thing of _trust_ between them. A constant, unspoken indication to Flack that Danny felt comfortable with relying on him, with letting Flack be his support when the time came for it.

Now, it was as if Danny was slowly shutting him out, and he didn't know a thing about how to stop it. Even worse, Danny knew something _was_ wrong and he was _lying_ to Flack's face that everything was cool anyway.

He freaking _hated_ that.

"I'm gonna get two more hot dogs. And you're gonna _eat _one," Flack growled.

Whatever protest Danny had on his lips died at the determination in Flack's big, blue eyes. For a second, the invisible walls around Danny seemed to fall apart. Flack could see the silent cry in Danny's aggrieved eyes, begging him to _do_ something. Before Flack could say a word, Danny's expression became shuttered and the walls were back up more impenetrable than ever. Danny glanced away again.

Flack snarled inwardly. Fine. The guy didn't wanna talk, he could wait till later.

Flack stalked to the hot dog vendor, wholly focused on purchasing at least two more hot dogs and scheming on how to force one down Danny's throat.

"_Oorf!_"

Flack bounced off the chest of the other guy he knocked into with a loud grunt. The homicide detective could have sworn he'd just run straight into a block of solid granite. Flack would have fallen butt-first onto the rough pavement if the other man hadn't grabbed his wrist and straightened him up with one strong tug.

Geez, where the _hell_ did _he_ come from!

"_Hey_, watch where you're _goin'!_"

"My apologies."

Flack stared into the most mesmerizing, green eyes he'd ever seen. On a _man_, no less. Whoever he was, he had to be as tall as Flack was, since they were both standing upright and gazing level at each other. His long, dark hair was tied into a ponytail, attired in a simple black shirt and trousers. He had the face of a supermodel, or at least, a face that would likely appear on fashion advertisements or perfume promotions. The man's powerful grip on his wrist indicated to Flack that, though the guy was a real pretty boy, this was no floozy he was facing here. This was a guy who was exceedingly fit and packed a good punch or fifty.

"Yeah, well, you're lucky I'm in sucha _nice_ mood."

The stranger smiled minutely. It oddly reminded Flack of a cobra snake, with its tongue flitting out and sensing its imminent victim.

"You have very well-built arms." The man maintained his unbreakable hold on Flack's wrist. It was getting real unnerving.

Flack felt like he was being hypnotized in place. He was paralyzed to the spot, hearing nothing but the man's smooth, low voice. What was happening to him?

"And your _eyes_ … photographs don't do justice to them."

Flack gasped harshly, ripping away his hand from the man's clutches. He stumbled back from the shock of the man's words.

In the three seconds it took to steady himself and open his mouth to yell, the man had disappeared into thin air.

Flack glanced around frantically, searching for the stranger he'd bumped into. Everywhere he looked, there were crowds of pedestrians ambling to and fro, creating the ideal cover for a swift getaway. He consciously willed his breathing to slow down. He rubbed at the area on his arm where the guy'd seized him without thinking about it.

Was that guy even _real? _God, he was _seriously_ freaked out.

"_Don!_"

Flack gasped again, then sighed in relief. _Danny_.

"I'm okay, I'm okay." Flack patted Danny's hands that were coiled into the folds of his jacket.

Danny's eyes were humongous. "I was callin' yer name for over a _minute! _What _happened_ to ya?"

Flack's body was attacked by a sudden fit of chills. Instinctively, he wrapped an arm around Danny's slender shoulders, still checking out his surroundings with narrowed, sharp eyes.

"I dunno, Danny … some guy bumped into me." He tightened his hold on his shorter friend. Danny didn't object. "S'nothin', don't worry 'bout it. C'mon, _stick _with me, 'kay?"

It was Danny's turn to stare fervently at Flack. Flack waited for the CSI to say something, but nothing came forth. The concern in those blue eyes said enough to the homicide detective.

"Let's go back to the lab, a'right," Flack said.

Danny nodded.

All the way back to CSI headquarters, Flack kept feeling goosebumps across his whole body.

Somewhere out there, a dark-haired man with green eyes was walking over his grave.


	3. Chapter 3

**Atop the Broken Universal Clock**

Fandom: CSI:NY

Author: Kimmychu

Rating: FRM (but it'll probably go up later)

Pairing: Danny/Flack (slash yet to be determined)

Content Warning: Violence, language, disturbing imagery

Spoilers: Set after 'Run Silent, Run Deep', so spoilers for any episode previous to that

Summary: In the aftermath of his brother's near-fatal beating, Danny must deal with the consequences of his past ... and finds himself losing the battle little by little. Will Flack be strong enough to be Danny's anchor in his darkest days?

Disclaimer: Nope, characters still don't belong to me. But, man, I sure wanna give Danny a big hug after what happened in RSRD.

OoooooooooooooooooooooooooO

Author's Notes: This chapter was quite difficult for me to write, which was the main reason the update was kinda later than I liked. All I have to say about it is … extreme angst ahead. Sorry if I make anyone cry because of it. If anyone's interested, the main soundtrack I listen to when I write this particular story comes from the soundtrack for tv series, '24'. It's the one by Sean Callery, entitled 'Jack Tells Kim He's Not Coming Back.' A moving and melancholy piece.

OoooooooooooooooooooooooooO

** Chapter 3**

Flack was getting annoyed by the third time he had to rap his knuckles on Danny's apartment door. Annoyed, and just a tad uneasy.

It was awfully unlike Danny to not answer calls on his mobile phone. It was part of a CSI's imperative to be ready and on call at all times, unless it was their day off. Even then, there was always the chance one might be called in to work if murderers all over New York decided it was a good time for someone to die. Flack was pretty sure Danny had the caller ID thing on his phone. Which meant, there was only one explanation why he wasn't picking up calls from Flack.

A fourth time of banging on the dark red door. Flack frowned.

"Danny? It's Flack, c'mon, open up."

Nothing.

Flack chewed on his lower lip. Man, after the long day he had, he really wasn't in the mood to smash down a door with his shoulder. Danny wouldn't appreciate it anyway.

The hallway of Danny's apartment floor wasn't bright, neither was it dim. The muted, pale orange lighting created a relaxing ambience and a warm glow on the beige walls and tiled floors. Moonlight cascaded through one stained glass window at the end of the corridor, casting colorful, semi-transparent hues on the floor before it. Only Danny would pick an apartment building that had stained glass windows you'd find in a _church_ instead.

Flack speed-dialed Danny on his mobile phone for the fifth time that evening. One of his feet tapped frenetically on the floor. The sound resounded noisily in the vacant hallway. Beeping sounds, then he was redirected to Danny's mailbox. Again.

He cursed softly under his breath. That weird, sinking feeling in his stomach was back.

Large, green eyes and a resilient grip popped into his mind out of nowhere.

Flack sucked in a breath. _Shit_, what if Danny wasn't answering his phone he was in _trouble _out there somewhere?

It had been five days since his eerie encounter with that stranger near the hot dog vendor at Central Park. Sure didn't diminish the goosebumps he felt every time he thought about the episode. His cop instincts kept telling him the guy was _bad_ news. He might be wrong. He might be simply too paranoid, but he knew how the saying went.

Only the paranoid survived.

He thumped the door one last time, harder than he habitually did, in his apprehension.

He waited. A minute passed with no activity on the other side of the closed door.

Flack huffed and started to walk off towards the elevator, his brain already going into out-and-out homicide detective mode. He had to call Mac or Stella. If they had no clue where Danny was, _then_ it was a suitable time to freak out.

The rattling sound of a chain lock being drawn and the door creaking open stopped Flack dead in his tracks.

" … Flack?"

Danny stood at the door in a thick, long-sleeved sweater with a round collar, faded jeans and red socks. He was rubbing absent-mindedly at his half-closed eyes, brown hair all disheveled. He uttered Flack's name again during a wide yawn, so it came out sounding more like, "_Fwaack?_"

Flack's first thought was, _thank God, the little geek was okay_. His next thought was, _what the heck was Danny doing sleeping at eight in the evening?_ His CSI pal was such a hyperactive guy he rarely slept at all until it was past midnight or one in the morning.

"Danny!" Flack stalked back to his friend's apartment, feeling irrationally angry at the other man. "What _took_ ya so long?"

Danny stared at him with bleary, heavy-lidded eyes. He looked like a little boy who'd been woken up long past his bedtime. "Sleepin'. Tired."

Flack's brows lowered in a scowl. Tired? _This_ early in the night? Okay, something wasn't right here. It wasn't as if Danny hadn't slept in three days successively or something. Indeed, every night for the past five _months_, Danny had gone straight home after work. No nights out with the others at Sullivan's. No nights out for hoops. Not even any nights out with Flack when all Flack wanted was some coffee and chitchat with one of his best friends. Unless Flack coerced him. And Danny _never _ate anything in front of him. That bothered Flack more than anything else.

Crap. Had it been _that_ long since he was here at Danny's apartment?

"We can go chow on some pizza down the street, how 'bout that? Betcha haven't had dinner yet." Flack smiled. Or at least, tried to. An alarm was blaring like crazy in his mind at the pallor of Danny's scrawny features.

Danny still appeared dazed, like he couldn't comprehend what Flack was doing at his apartment. "It's okay. I already had somethin' to eat."

Oh no, Flack couldn't let the other guy slip out of this _that_ easy.

"C'mon, _pizza_, Messer! Yer _favorite! _Ya _never_ turn it down." Flack prodded Danny in the shoulder. A second alarm joined the first in his head when his sharp, blue eyes detected the wince Danny endeavored to conceal. What the? That wasn't even a _hard_ nudge.

Some fire materialized in Danny's dull eyes for a second. Flack involuntarily stiffened, ready for his friend to snap at him. Danny blinked, and whatever spark was in those cerulean eyes was gone. Flack's frown intensified. This brown-haired, blue-eyed man _looked _like his pal Danny Messer, but he certainly wasn't _behaving_ like him.

Danny wordlessly shuffled away from the open door, allowing Flack to enter the apartment.

"So, how 'bout it, buddy? Maybe ya wanna have it sent here instead?"

No answer. Flack peered in the darkness and couldn't discern where the other guy had gone.

None of the apartment lights were on, except for the small lamp next to the front door that automatically came on at seven every night. The only other light Flack could see came from Danny's bedroom. Flack had been to the place so many times he knew precisely where all the light switches were, and went to flip them on.

"What … the _freakin'_ …"

He and Danny had been friends for over five years. He was barely exaggerating when he claimed he knew the CSI better than ninety-nine percent of everyone in Danny's life, regardless of whether they were part of it or not. He hoped Danny could say the same about him. One of Danny's not so well-known traits was that he was an absolute neat freak. Most people assumed he was a naturally untidy guy due to his hyperactivity and wired personality. Flack knew better. It was most likely Danny's years of training to be a CSI that instilled some tendency in him for keeping everything orderly at all times.

What Flack was laying his eyes on now was a fucking _mess_. No, _mess_ was a major understatement. Books, normally organized by alphabetical order on the enormous bookshelf in the living area, were strewn everywhere in falling piles on the floor. There were worn shirts, pants and even the random sock flung on top of the furniture in the place. Flack kicked at a balled up dress shirt on the floor next to his feet. Right, okay. He must be in some alternate universe where his Danny was a sleepy slob who looked too damn skinny for his own good. Yeah, that must be it.

"_Danny?_"

Flack tiptoed warily over the clutter, careful not to step on any of the books. Danny loved his books. He yelped when his shin collided painfully with a hard object. Hey, that was one of Danny's side tables that was usually on both sides of the couch. It was hidden under a rumpled short-sleeved top. He pushed the table away with a foot, glowering at it. What it was doing there out of place and in the way of Flack getting to the bedroom, the homicide detective had no idea.

In fact, he had no idea whatsoever what the _hell_ was going on here.

"Danny? Hey, _c'mon_, don't leave me out here all _alone_."

Silence.

He continued his journey, avoiding another side table, one of the black-and-steel stools from the kitchen counter and a chair from the coffee table along the way. Geez, what was up with all this furniture blocking the way? A guy could run into one of those things and trip himself up bad. Books all over the place, Flack could get. Dirty clothes? Okay, he could let Danny off the hook on that too. Wasn't like he didn't do that himself sometimes when he got too busy. But _moving _furniture and leaving them randomly all over the apartment? That didn't make sense.

"I'm gonna order pepperoni and cheese, a'right?"

Flack stumbled into the bedroom, nearly colliding with the chair left in the doorway. He moved it away in irritation, then saw why Danny hadn't replied any of his questions.

The CSI had literally collapsed back into bed and fallen asleep. Just like that.

Flack stood there like a dummy for a minute or two, with a funny look on his face. It was an amalgam of a tiny hint of exasperation and a whole lot of stupefaction. He cranked his head at an angle, gaping at the sight of an unconscious Danny partially curled up on his unmade bed with his legs hanging off the edge. What the _fuck?_

"Dan?" Flack said. The other man remained fast asleep.

The homicide detective noted the bedroom was in about the same condition as the living area outside. However, there weren't as many books here and there. Flack also noted there was a chair right beside the bed, really near to where Danny was sleeping now. It was a bizarre place to put a chair. If he hadn't come into the room, the chair next to him would have been positioned in front of the bedroom door.

As if it was meant to be some _obstacle_. But, to obstruct _what?_

Flack quietly dragged the chair next to the bed backwards and settled himself on it. He pinched the flesh between his eyes, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. Wait. All this furniture lying around was refreshing his memory of one of their earlier cases. Something to do with … that woman who was found pounding her fists into a murder victim's bloody chest. The one where he presumed from the start that she was the murderer.

Flack's blue eyes opened wide.

That was _it_. The Ophelia Dichiara case. The woman who was a parasomniac and walked around in her slumber without even knowing it. Stella had mentioned to him about Dichiara deliberately placing chairs and other large, hard objects around her bed at night to wake her up whenever she sleepwalked. Later, after the case was solved, Mac had told him the reason for her actions upon the murder victim that fateful night.

Dichiara had a son. He was killed in a car accident that she witnessed with her very own eyes. She'd attempted to revive him by massaging his heart, but she failed. Since then, she had never quite moved on from the loss of her son, reliving the event over and over each night in her dreams.

She couldn't let it go, because her guilt over not being able to save him stopped her from letting go.

That insight caused Flack to jerk in his seat. Flack didn't realize his lips were contorting in a soundless prayer as he pulled up one leg of Danny's jeans little by little. He intensely hoped he was going to be proven wrong in his suspicions. The blue, coarse cloth slid easily up Danny's slim leg to the knee.

Flack's eyelids lowered over suddenly hot eyes.

The blue and black bruises on the pale skin were stark under the exposure to the bedroom ceiling light. All of them had flat, angular edges to them, revealing to Flack that Danny surely got them after running into those squarish, side tables or one of the chairs. Some were faded, light purple in color, and some were almost black and dark bluish and inflamed. It hurt Flack just to _look_ at them.

"What are ya _doin'_ to yerself, huh?" Flack said in a small, unhappy voice. He placed one hand against Danny's cool cheek. It was unbelievable. Flack felt like he was stuck in a steaming sauna in the apartment, and Danny's skin was like _ice_. "_What are ya doin' to yerself?_"

The homicide detective rested his hand on Danny's cheek and lower jaw for a couple more minutes, rubbing the sunken cheek with a thumb. He then tenderly raised Danny's legs so they lay on top of the bed along with the rest of his body. He stared at the bruises on the CSI's shin for a long time.

Should he call Mac and inform his supervisor about this? What was he going to say?

_Hey, Mac, guess what I found out? Danny's gone from a neat freak to a total slob whose apartment looks worse than a New York trash dump. Oh, he looks like an anorexic scarecrow too. But hey, here's the best bit! I think he's sleepwalkin' just like that Dichiara woman, remember her? Yeah, and I think he's sufferin' from nightmares 'bout his brother and the Tanglewood Boys too and who knows what the fuck else. And if we don't do somethin' 'bout him not eatin' any food, Danny's gonna DIE. Whaddaya make a' THAT, Mac?_

Flack covered his face with his hands. Oh God, was he the _only_ person on the team who realized how close to the brink Danny was? Flack got up and tugged the woolen blanket on the bed over and around the oblivious man, until only Danny's head on the pillow showed.

He sniffed, and blinked a few times. Okay, food. _Food_. He had to get Danny to eat some food.

The lanky homicide detective shrugged off his mauve jacket and tossed it on the couch as he marched towards the kitchen, clearing his path by kicking anything in the way. It felt good to take out his anger on heavy inanimate things. He briskly rummaged through all the cupboards in the kitchen, coming up with a measly three tins of Campbell's cream of mushroom soup and one tin of spaghetti-o. Leaving those on the counter, he opened the fridge.

_Gryaah_. Flack grimaced and promptly threw away the spoilt bottle of what used to be fresh milk. It was already curdling and smelling pretty awful. It must have been in there for _months_. The only other food item was the salad he'd bought after picking Danny up from the hospital that night. It wasn't exactly rotten mush, but it looked yucky nonetheless. Geez, Danny hadn't eaten since _then?_ That was impossible.

Flack opened the freezer. Nothing except white ice. He closed it.

Well. Guess that left soup or spaghetti-o.

He deftly got the spaghetti-o out of the can and scooped it into a glass bowl. Thank goodness Danny had an operational microwave. The machine emitted a vibrating hum, the only sound perceptible in the apartment. Flack ran long fingers through his dark, shorn hair. First, he was gonna get Danny to eat the spaghetti-o, then he'll call for pizza or Chinese takeout. He didn't feel right about leaving Danny alone.

There was a shrill _ding!_ Flack quickly took out the heated bowl and placed it onto a plate so he could carry it without burning his hand. Using a spoon, he tasted some of the spaghetti-o to see if it was warmed enough for consumption. Okay, it was fine. Danny should be able to eat _this_ tiny bit of food.

The tall detective returned to Danny's side, holding onto the bowl and plate with one hand and gently shaking Danny's shoulder with the other.

"Danny? Danny, _wake up_. I made ya somethin' to eat."

Danny made a vague noise. Flack shook him harder.

"Dan-"

With a loud cry, Danny shot up in bed, blue eyes wide and filled with terror. The CSI's gaze darted here and there, seeking an invisible threat only he could see. Danny gasped when his huge eyes fell on Flack standing next to his bed.

Flack had been taken aback by Danny's violent reaction, but he didn't allow it to show. He stayed immobile, sending his friend a reassuring smile.

"Hey, buddy. It's _me_. Ya let me in just now, remember?"

Danny stared at him in bewilderment, then around his bedroom, appearing like a disoriented, abandoned puppy. The look made Flack want to strangle some lousy perp in a really, _really_ vicious method. Preferably that arrogant Tanglewood sonofabitch rotting in Sing Sing.

"Don?"

"Yeah." Flack sat down on the chair next to the bed. "See? I heated up some spaghetti-o. Ya always like eatin' it with pizza." He stretched out the arm holding the bowl on plate in Danny's direction.

Danny was staring at the yellow and red meal as if Flack had just handed him toxic sludge straight from the sewers.

"If you're not that hungry, ya can still eat a _mouthful _or two, right?" Something in Flack's brain was yelling at him to be stern with the other man on this eating issue and not go all softie. If Danny could eat all the spaghetti-o, he was in the clear. If not … Flack wasn't going to think about that unless that was the way things went.

Danny stared at the bowl with frightened eyes for a few more seconds, then shifted his piercing gaze onto Flack. A colossal hunk of ice grew in the depths of Flack's belly at the blatant dread in Danny's eyes.

His independent CSI pal, who hadn't even been afraid of a murderer pointing a loaded gun directly into his face, was scared _shitless_ of a bowl of _spaghetti-o_.

Flack thought he ought to be laughing right now, except all he really wanted to do was weep.

_No_. He had to be _strong_. For _both_ of them.

"C'mon, Danny. I eat half and you eat half."

He moved the bowl closer to Danny. Maybe he was seeing things, but Flack swore the expression on Danny's pale visage was transforming from one of fear to one of ravaging hunger. Flack held his breath.

Two trembling hands reached for the bowl and spoon. Danny's hands were quivering so severely Flack was half-afraid the guy was going to spill the spaghetti-o all over the bed. Again, Flack's brain was warning him it would be a bad move to assist Danny at this point. If Danny was going to eat, he had to do it on his own accord, not because Flack pushed the food in his face.

Danny's blue eyes were gigantic on his emaciated face. In any other circumstances, Flack would be jesting with his friend about them being as big as those belonging to that actor Elijah Wood. Here and now, they froze Flack to the spot, causing his insides to roil in an unpleasant way. As chaotic as it was within Flack, the homicide detective stayed calm and amicable on the outside, smiling at Danny once more.

Danny broke eye contact after a couple of seconds. The CSI stared at the yellow spaghetti-o and thick, red tomato sauce in the bowl in his hands. Then, in a shocking move, he thrust the bowl at his mouth and gobbled up everything in it in less than four mouthfuls.

Flack's blue eyes were as wide as Danny's. _Whoa_, he _so_ did not expect that.

He should be _happy_, right? Danny _ate_ the food. So why was the oh-so-talkative smart organ in his skull still telling him something was off?

Flack hurriedly took the bowl and spoon from Danny. The smaller man wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. Danny looked … satisfied. It just didn't make sense. Danny wouldn't be looking like a _skeleton_ if he _enjoyed_ eating.

"That was _good_, huh?"

Danny slowly lifted his head to look at Flack. Whatever satisfaction Flack saw on Danny's mien had instantaneously vanished. Oh boy, something was _really_ wrong.

"Hey, Da-"

All of a sudden, Danny clamped a hand over his mouth. His upper body impulsively hunched over. Flack chucked the used utensils on the floor and immediately shot to his feet, muscles tensed in alarm. Fuck, déjà vu was slamming Flack in the chest like a ten-ton steel container.

It was _that_ night replaying itself again, like an appalling cheap movie.

This time, Flack was smart enough to seize Danny by the arms and virtually haul the retching man out of bed and off his feet to the bathroom. The homicide detective was exceptionally thankful he'd cleared a path through the mess earlier on. Even so, Flack almost lost his footing three feet from the bathroom door, slipping perilously on a thin book.

Danny barely made it to the porcelain toilet bowl before he removed his hand and threw up everything he ate in one squelchy expulsion. Flack, leaning against the doorway and panting slightly from the exertion of running with a full-grown man in arms, twisted his head away, eyes scrunched shut. The sour reek made even Flack nauseous. Every gagging and vomiting sound emanating from the bathroom seemed to pulsate through Flack's entire being and generate aches in places he never knew could.

An eternity passed.

Flack heard a heavy thud, a raspy cough. Flush of the toilet. Toilet paper ripped from its roll. He blinked his eyes rapidly to clear them, inhaled sharply then entered the bathroom.

Danny sat with knees drawn to his chest on the tiled floor, dabbing at his lips with some toilet paper. His weary, blue eyes were watery. There were tear tracks on his pasty cheeks. Incredibly, the CSI looked worse than he already did.

"_Danny_."

The shorter detective sniffled. Flack itched terribly to punch something at Danny's tremulous parody for a smile.

"I-it's okay, Don … just … just a _stomach flu_-"

Flack's vision turned blood red.

"Oh _yeah? _What kinda _fuckin' stomach flu _lasts for _months_, _huh?_" Through the crimson haze, he saw Danny recoil under his harsh retort. "_HUH!_"

When Danny didn't reply, Flack grabbed one skinny wrist. "This is _NOT_ normal, Danny! _Normal people don't look like they're starvin' to death or vomit after EATIN' SOMETHIN'!_"

Flack's sight became even more blurry with dampness as Danny struggled weakly in his grasp and couldn't break out of it. "_Look _at ya, ya can't even get yerself outta a _handhold!_" In his incensed misery, Flack shook Danny like a rag doll.

"_When are ya gonna stop LYING TO ME!_"

Danny somehow gathered a burst of energy and shoved Flack away from him using his hands. Flack landed hard on the sink, hip bruised by the unyielding mass. Their pants echoed discordantly in the small bathroom, Danny's sounding more moist.

"There's _nothin'_ wrong … with me." Danny's bony hands were balled into furious fists. "_I can deal with it_."

Danny's contradicting statements merely served to infuriate Flack more. "You say _nothin's_ wrong, and then ya say ya can _deal _with it? Are ya _listenin'_ to yerself, Danny? You know you've got a problem, but ya don't wanna _face_ it!" Flack's handsome features furrowed into a frustrated, sorrowful scowl. "Don't you _get_ it? _I want to HELP YOU!_"

"I DON'T _NEED_ YER HELP!" Danny's teeth were bared in a rictus of desperation and aggravation. "I TOLD YA, I CAN _DEAL_ WITH IT _MYSELF! I DON'T NEED YOU!_"

Flack reeled against the sink, suddenly incapable of drawing a breath. My God, was _this_ what it felt like when his heart _stopped?_ It hurt beyond any agony he had ever felt in his life.

"Fine."

Flack pushed himself away from the sink so that he loomed over Danny still sitting on the floor. For some reason, he'd lost control of the muscles in the lower area of his face. His vision had reduced to hazy, colorful blobs, as if he was peering through a distorted glass. Danny was simply an ashen blob of brown, black, blue and red. But then, even then, the pain in Danny's cerulean eyes registered on his mind so clearly.

"Fine. Ya wanna play _tough_ guy? _Fine. _You deal with your own _shit_." Flack swung an arm in an enraged motion. "_I'm outta here_."

The tall homicide detective stormed out of the bathroom, snatching his jacket from the couch and fiercely kicked at a chair on his way to the apartment front door. Flack fumbled with the doorknob, then slammed the door behind him loud enough for the sound to reverberate across the whole hallway. Right now, he couldn't give a shit if he disturbed the other tenants. Besides, he was seriously dying for a bloody fight.

If Flack had stayed a moment longer, he would have seen a very forlorn and torn up Danny wrap his thin arms around even thinner legs, face crumpled inordinately while he cried strident, raw sobs. Rocking himself back and forth with the dawning realization he might have just lost the one person who truly cared for him.

It wouldn't have made a difference. The tears Flack was weeping himself as he drove aimlessly on the roads of New York obscured his sight to the point he wouldn't have been able to see anything anyway.


	4. Chapter 4

**Atop the Broken Universal Clock**

Fandom: CSI:NY

Author: Kimmychu

Rating: FRM (but it'll probably go up later)

Pairing: Danny/Flack (slash yet to be determined)

Content Warning: Violence, language, disturbing imagery

Spoilers: Set after 'Run Silent, Run Deep', so spoilers for any episode previous to that

Summary: In the aftermath of his brother's near-fatal beating, Danny must deal with the consequences of his past ... and finds himself losing the battle little by little. Will Flack be strong enough to be Danny's anchor in his darkest days?

Disclaimer: Nope, characters still don't belong to me. But, man, I sure wanna give Danny a big hug after what happened in RSRD.

OoooooooooooooooooooooooooO

Author's Notes: Sorry for the late update on this story, everyone. Was writing the last few chapters for my other, cracktastic DD one, heheheh. So, here's a long chapter for you all. Hopefully, it's conveyed the suspense and tension I want it to. Poor Danny and Flack.

OoooooooooooooooooooooooooO

** Chapter 4**

Hawkes was really regretting his big breakfast of ham, sausages and scrambled eggs.

"Sandra Carpenter. Actress. Model. Author. Callgirl on the side." Flack's voice dripped with cynicism and a slight insinuation of disgust. "Neighbor next door called the police when the _smell _hit."

The ME turned CSI held a hand in front of his nose and mouth as he knelt next to what used to be a young, blonde woman in her twenties. Hawkes had spent _years_ bent over decaying corpses in the autopsy lab, sometimes having to position his face inches away from dead flesh to search for potential evidence, or study tool marks on bones to assess the type of weapon used for the murder. The blood-splashed, mangled body before him appeared to be dead for less than twelve hours, but had the stench of a corpse that had been rotting for _weeks_.

It was like death itself was still present in the apartment bedroom, weighty and spine-crushing and chilling and sucking the life out of the police officers and detectives there.

She'd been gutted like a fish from the base of her neck all the way down to her groin, her internal organs exposed to the world, opened up like a bloody flower. Her ribs looked as if someone had taken a hammer or some heavy, solid object to them, all broken and shattered. The liver was missing. A chunk of her heart was gone. Bitten off. Her reproductive organs were missing as well. This was no random killing. This was _really_ personal.

Hawkes frowned, gazing at the eerie expression of the dead woman. Her eyes were open wide as saucers, but she was grinning. It instantly reminded him of the Joker, the notorious villain of that comic book character, Batman. Were the Joker real, even he would have fled screaming at the victim's frozen expression. Carpenter's killer had rearranged her face after she died. Just like Mac's case with the slaughtered seven-year-old boy in Central Park.

He shivered, an iciness growing inside him. Were they dealing with a _serial killer?_ If they were, New York city was about to pop out on the world map yet again. This time, for becoming unwilling host to one of the most sadistic murderers whose gory leftovers were the nastiest Hawkes had ever come across.

"Neighbor said she was alone, although he technically didn't see her in the last few days." Flack smirked sardonically. "Seems her man pals were the _noisy_ types, if ya know what I mean."

Hawkes glanced up. The homicide detective was attired in dark colors today, black jacket and trousers with the only element of color coming from his bright pink tie. As usual, Flack had his black notebook out, reading out tidbits of information to whichever CSI he was working with. Hawkes noted the subtle downward curve of Flack's lips, the dark circles around the blue eyes. The lines on the handsome visage Hawkes hadn't spotted before. Flack looked like he'd aged twenty years since Hawkes last saw him at CSI headquarters a week ago. Back then, he'd looked haggard and worn out too.

Something considerable outside of work must have occurred to the guy. Flack was the sort of man who wasn't easily affected by things. That was one of the homicide detective's personality traits Hawkes admired. Flack seemed to have a colossal reserve of energy and strength to deal with the stress and bullshit the city threw at its finest on a daily basis. The guy didn't buckle one bit, not even when it was one of their own who got hurt.

"She probably had a black book of all her clients."

"Combed the place, but no book," Flack replied. His blue eyes persisted in straying to the dead woman's face and shredded torso. Hawkes could clearly see the repulsion in them. "Killer might have taken it with him."

There was a knock on the bedroom door.

"Hey, guys, I'm going to process the bathroom." It was Lindsay. She had her dirty-blonde, wavy hair tied up, and had on the black CSI coat with the white initials emblazoned on its back. Her equipment case was carried in her left hand. "The murderer left blood _everywhere_ there." Lindsay took one glimpse of the corpse on the floor and noticeably gulped.

Hawkes nodded, mien solemn. "Okay. Danny will be here soon to help me out here."

From the corner of his eye, he perceived Flack perking up at the mention of Danny's name. It was Flack's expression as he did so that caught Hawkes' interest. Hmmm. Whatever happened last week … could it have been something to do with the other CSI?

Lindsay coughed, a hand held over her lower face. "Alright, let me know if you need help later."

She smiled waveringly at both men, then walked out of sight to the bathroom of the victim's apartment.

Less than five seconds later, Hawkes heard her say in the distance, "Hey, Danny."

Flack's head instantaneously snapped in the direction of the open bedroom doorway.

"Hey, Lindsay." Measured footsteps headed their way.

From where he crouched on the floor, Hawkes had the opportunity to study Flack secretly. His head angled to one side. Huh. Was that _jealousy_ he saw in those blue eyes?

"_Fuck_." Danny didn't make an effort to conceal his revulsion. His face was twisted into a sickened grimace.

Hawkes chuckled. "Yeah, you're not the only one who's regretting breakfast."

Flack was oddly quiet and subdued, staring at Danny with hard eyes. That in itself sent a signal to the former ME his suspicions about some fresh conflict between the two men were not unfounded. It was no shocker to anyone at headquarters that Danny and Flack were very close friends. Stella, in particular, delighted in teasing the two detectives about them waving hands at each other and exchanging fashion tips and bantering like an old, married couple.

Hawkes had to raise an eyebrow in surprise when Danny didn't greet Flack at all, much less glance at the guy. There was a startling tension in the room that made the place more stifling than it already was. Danny probably couldn't see the tightening of Flack's hand into a fist from where the CSI stood, but Hawkes did.

Okay. He was one hundred percent sure now _something_ was going on between the two men. And it _wasn't_ good.

"You get the bed." Hawkes motioned towards the disheveled, blood-splattered bed with his head. "It's not as ugly as what I've got here, but I'm afraid to say the _smell's_ just as bad."

"Gee, thanks, Doc." Now that sounded like the Danny Hawkes knew. If only he _looked_ it too, then perhaps he could believe the fellow CSI was alright. "Where're Mac and Stella?"

"Working on another case in Brooklyn. A hairdresser was discovered in her salon." Hawkes made a face. "Asphyxiated to death with leftover hair on the floor from her customers. And missing her _arms_."

Danny groaned. "I did _not_ need that image, man."

Hawkes chuckled once more. The bespectacled CSI shambled over to the bed, putting down his CSI case and tugging on a pair of latex rubber gloves. Flack's eyes followed him all around the room. The homicide detective was staring so fiercely at Danny it was impossible the shorter man didn't know it. If Flack's cerulean eyes were lasers, Danny would have two holes going through his skull by now.

The strain in the atmosphere spiked. Hawkes cleared his throat and went back to processing the corpse. He waited inwardly and a little uneasily for Flack to display an open reaction to Danny's obvious disregard of him. Hawkes wasn't as close to the homicide detective as the others were, but … being completely ignored by one of his best friends? Flack _had_ to be angry at that.

"I'm goin' out for a smoke."

Hawkes looked at Flack in surprise. Whoa. He never pegged Flack to be the smoking type.

From the shock on Danny's wan face, _he_ didn't either.

The two blue-eyed men made eye contact for only a second. Danny shifted his gaze back to the bloody bed straight away, expression shuttered. Flack looked as if he was hoping for more, eyes filled with an emotion Hawkes could only define as grief. When Danny kept his face turned away, the taller detective scowled deeply and stomped off, shoving the bedroom door harder than he should.

Hawkes sighed, shoulders slumped. Stella was right about one thing. When these two guys got together, they were like an electric charge that made everyone and everything around them tingle. He studied Danny from the corners of his eyes.

Frankly, he was very troubled by Danny's recent condition, most likely more than the others, with the exception of the homicide cop who just left in a huff. He might be a full-time CSI in the field now, but from the beginning, he was a medical examiner. A physician. A _healer_. Even a person who wasn't a qualified doctor could tell Danny was not in the best of shape.

The victim's bedroom was becoming hotter and hotter as midday approached. Hawkes, who'd initially worn a thin jacket over a short-sleeved shirt and light trousers, had taken it off long before he entered the apartment itself. Danny was still wearing his thick sports jacket on top of a woolen, circular-necked sweater. Hawkes bet a thousand bucks it was a long-sleeved one too. He couldn't recall when he'd last seen his CSI peer in his beloved tank tops or short-sleeved shirts. Danny's current choice of clothes was cunning and deceiving. It made the man look bulkier than he actually was. If he already appeared frighteningly skinny with the clothes on … what must he be like _without _them?

Of all the physical clues, it was the bespectacled man's visage that was most telling. The dark bags under the drowsy, blue eyes were stark from lack of sleep. There were deep lines of exhaustion where there were none before, particularly around the eyes and mouth. The face itself was narrower. A face that painfully made Hawkes dredge up the image of starving, skeletal children in Africa.

"Danny."

Danny's gloved hands were visibly trembling as he scanned over the rumpled sheets hardened by dried blood. It took the man a few seconds to respond. He lifted his head.

Hawkes smiled reassuringly at him. "Is everything alright?"

Danny stared at him with blank eyes. The missing liveliness in the blue orbs alarmed Hawkes.

"Danny," Hawkes repeated. "Is everything okay between you and Flack?"

The homicide detective's name seemed to jerk Danny out of his daze. "Huh? Yeah … _yeah_." Danny shrugged minutely. "Nothin's goin' on between us." Danny glanced away and took his time browsing through his open CSI equipment holder.

Hawkes pursed his lips. Hmm. Okay, Danny didn't want to talk about it. He'd have to wait until later to bring it up again.

"How are _you_ holding up?"

With Danny's back facing him, Hawkes couldn't ascertain whether Danny had even heard him.

There was a minute of silence.

Then Danny swiveled to look at him, giving him a tremulous put-on smile. It made a great part of Hawkes' heart throb with concern.

" … I'm fine. Really."

Hawkes stared pointedly at him. Danny's eyes flitted away and back again. Hawkes detected a strong tinge of self-reproach in those huge, sad eyes. Danny commonly came off as cocky and rebellious and typically inscrutable to people in general. However, once a person got the chance to know him well, he was like an open book. It was simply a matter of learning the right way to read him.

And if there was one thing Hawkes learnt about Danny, it was that Danny found it very difficult to lie to him, of all people.

"Doin' the best I can, ya know? … Just … dealin' with things." The brown-haired CSI's smile grew stronger, but no more genuine than it originally was. "Been better, but … I'm holdin' up, Doc."

Hawkes inwardly sighed in relief. At least Danny was talking a little to him.

"How is he?"

Danny's awkward smile instantaneously faltered. "He's … the same." He shrugged one shoulder. "Doctor says there's still a _chance_ he might wake up … so …"

"There's always hope." Hawkes smiled in encouragement, and squeezed Danny's nearest shoulder. Hawkes was frowning inside. Did Danny's shoulders always feel _this_ fragile? He left his hand there, privately pleased that Danny didn't flinch from the contact.

Finally, Danny shot him a sincere if diminutive smile. "Yeah."

"Danny." The other CSI straightened a bit at the tone of Hawkes' voice. "I'm here. If you want to _talk_ to someone, I'm _here_, okay?"

Danny's lower lip quivered slightly, and he bit it, bowing his head at the same time. "Thanks, Sheldon."

Hawkes felt some of the heaviness on his chest lift. The first step was forever the hardest. Hawkes hadn't gotten far in getting Danny to open up about his hidden plight, but still, a start was a start. He had to tread very carefully. Their friendship wasn't as personal as it was between Danny and, say, Flack or Mac, or even Stella. There were certain boundaries he couldn't cross yet without forcing Danny to throw up his walls and rapidly shut him out, not unless it was Danny himself who gave the green light for him to do so.

"Well, that's what friends are for." Hawkes made a puppy dog face. "I hope you _do_ consider me a friend, don't you, Danny?"

Danny chuckled faintly. Hawkes smiled. He hadn't heard that patented cackle in a long time. _Too_ long.

"Yeah."

Hawkes patted Danny on the shoulder, then returned to the victim sprawled on the floor.

"Hawkes?"

Hawkes gazed keenly at Danny. "Yeah?"

"Remember what I said about the smell of fish being worse than dead bodies?"

Hawkes smirked. "_Yeah?_"

One end of Danny's lips curled up. "I take it back."

Hawkes laughed.

He hadn't been uttering agreeable, comforting thoughts to Danny merely for consolation's sake. He had meant every single word.

There was always hope, as long as there was life.

OoooooooooooooooooooooooooO

The cigarette smoke stung Flack's narrowed eyes. He blinked, blowing it away with one long exhalation. The vivid, midday sunshine was hurting his eyes too, so he backed up a couple of steps into the shade of a tree outside the DB's apartment building. He couldn't be bothered to put on his sunglasses. He was going to go inside soon anyway.

Damnit, he quit smoking about five years ago. It was a lousy habit he picked up from his dad, who, in fact, literally encouraged him to do it when he was only fourteen.

_Real men drink and smoke, Donny_. _Only fags worry about their health and are afraid to die._

Flack scowled. Yeah, Pop, whatever. Goddamned New York _legend_ and all, evidently he must know _everything_ under the sun as well.

He puffed on the lit cigarette for another minute or two, glaring at nothing in particular. There were other police officers at the scene. Flack recognized Jensen from the 32nd precinct, chatting with two other cops while they leaned on their squad car or stood on the pavement. All three of them looked spooked out of their skin. They were probably waiting for the coroner to arrive like he was.

Jensen, a twenty-six year veteran on the city streets, was the one who responded to the call and set out for the victim's building early that morning. From the sound of things, Jensen and his partner, a young rookie called Mahn, assumed they were answering one of those regular domestic calls where a family pet died in the vents or something.

That is, until they broke down the apartment door and stumbled upon what remained of Sandra Carpenter.

Mahn couldn't stop vomiting for over ten minutes outside the victim's apartment. Jensen himself had to take a few minutes to recollect his composure before calling up homicide. That was where Flack came in.

He was, weirdly enough, more put off by Mahn's icky spew on the floor than the dead body itself. Something in his skull was warning him it was a good time to start wondering whether he was becoming way too indifferent to death and grisly sights for his own good. The very same something also told him his brewing indifference was the sole thing that saved him from going permanently fucking insane.

Flack took one last puff, then sauntered over to the trash bin next to the apartment building entrance, tossing the cigarette butt into the ashtray on top. His stomach suddenly churned at the intruding vision of the dead Carpenter's face frozen in its vile death mask. It made him recall yet another similar death mask, that of the little boy found in Central Park nearly two weeks ago. Flack closed his eyes. He was so sick of death. He couldn't for his own life fathom why he chose to be in the homicide department anymore. He jostled the wince-inducing memories of arguements with his dad into a mental chest with ten thousand locks on it, and shook his head once to forget about it. He had enough crap to fret about as it was.

"Hey, Flack."

Flack opened his eyes to see Jensen next to him, his matured, brown face dour. Jensen stood beside him, so they both faced the street. There were only some pedestrians walking past the apartment building. As there were no noticeable yellow police tape or anything of the likes in sight, no one stopped at all for crime sightseeing. The third cop whom Flack didn't know was now standing at the open doors of the main entrance, but New York's finest was a common sight. Heck, to all outward appearances, it was simply another day in New York city, and a guy in a black suit and another cop in police uniform were having a smoke outside an inconspicuous apartment building. Flack saw the rookie Mahn had gone to sit in the patrol car, looking quite green at the gills. Poor kid.

"How's yer old man?" Jensen had been on patrol and in the force for so long, he practically knew everybody who was in law enforcement. Including Flack's father.

"Same old, same old. Asshole with a capital _A_."

Jensen hooted. "Yep. Sounds like good ol' Don, a'right."

Flack liked Jensen. He was about the only cop Flack knew apart from Danny who dared to candidly joke with him about his father and laugh along when others were cowed simply at hearing Don Flack, Sr.'s _name_. For crying out loud, his dad was a _man_ with flaws like any other guy. He was damn glad Jensen saw beyond the glorified crap and viewed his father for who he truly was.

"Here." Flack chucked the almost-full pack of Marlboro's at Jensen. The middle-aged cop nimbly caught it with calloused hands.

"Wha, ya don't want it?"

Flack made a face. "Nah. Smokin' kills."

Jensen guffawed.

"You're a funny guy, Flack. Thanks." The policeman put the pack into his trouser pocket. Jensen continued to puff on his cigarette. "Never saw ya smoke 'fore, kid."

"Heh. Used ta smoke now and then when I was a teenager. Quit for good five years ago."

The statement, along with the smoke emitting from Jensen's cigarette, brought lucid reminiscences in Technicolor to the forefront in Flack's mind.

"_Okay, tell ya what. Let's see who quits smokin' first." Danny's smirk made his own lips twitch._

"_Hell, Messer, I'm aaaaalways smokin'." His comment earned him a punch in the shoulder. _

_Danny snickered. "C'mon, I'm serious here! You quit first, I'll pay yer tabs here at Sullivan's. I quit first, you do the same fer me."_

_Both of Flack's thick eyebrows shot up. "Whoa there, we've only known each other a couple a' weeks. We already movin' up to payin' tabs fer each other here? I think we're missin' the dating bit or somethin'. Aren't ya supposed to be buyin' me chocolate or flowers first?" _

_The bespectacled man's laugh rang clear in the cozy confines of the pub. "Ya think you're real funny, don'tcha?"_

"_I knooow I am." Flack grinned. "Okay, Messer. You're on."_

Jensen coughed. Flack's blue eyes widened, and here he was, fast forward five years from that evening at Sullivan's where he drank beer together with Danny for the first time. Who would have thought that much time could pass in the blink of an eye.

"Why'd ya start smokin' again?" Jensen's brown eyes concentrated on his face.

An image of Danny when they first met popped up. As Flack looked on, the natural tanned shade of Danny's skin faded to an ashen, unhealthy color. Lines of distress and age gradually emerged. The brash smirk morphed into a hesitant, downturned expression. The light in those cerulean eyes were replaced with a bleakness more opaque than the darkness of night. Now, Flack saw in his mind the altered Danny of the present day. And even in his own mind, Danny stared at him with that tormented gaze. And then turned away.

Flack was gritting his teeth so hard it hurt. No, Jensen was hardly the guy he could talk to about what really compelled him to smoke once more.

"Did ya see the body upstairs?" Flack smirked mirthlessly at the cop.

"Oh, fuckin' hell. That's one _damn_ good reason to start smokin' again." Jensen rubbed at his face, as if he was trying to erase the ghastly vision from his brain. "No friggin' baked beans and red meat for me for a month. _At least_."

Flack snorted. He took a step forward.

'I'm goin' back in, check on how the CSIs are doin'."

"Sure thing, Flack. I'll see ya 'round. And thanks for the cigarettes."

Jensen gave a short wave goodbye and headed for his patrol car to look in on his partner. Flack smirked again. Hell of a way to begin patrol the way the rookie did. He was thankful his years of being trained under his former mentor Gavin Moran were less … graphic.

Flack went through the open doors into the apartment building lobby, nodding at the fellow police officer. The guy nodded back civilly. Although the main entrance had a newly installed electronic security lock that required a card and code, it was an old building, and therefore didn't have an elevator service. He felt sorry for the tenants on the highest floor. He hoped they were fit folk.

A long flight of stairs was situated directly in front of the lobby entrance. It led up to another flight of stairs perpendicular to it, and another and another until they reached the top floor. It was made of dark, polished wood, with a Victorian design to them. As much as he respected the fine art and the variety of designs of stairs, he still preferred an elevator over staircases anytime. One of the reasons he liked visiting Danny at his place.

There were echoing footsteps from above. Someone was coming down.

Flack waited quietly at the foot of the staircase. The thumps became more audible. He could feel the listless cadence of the steps through the wooden banister. Man, this was one ancient building.

A slender, familiar figure came into view at the top of the stairs. Flack's hand involuntarily constricted around the dark wood under his hand.

"Danny."

Danny was caught by surprise, going immobile on the highest tread of the staircase. The CSI's large eyes stared at Flack for a moment, then tore away.

"Hey," Danny replied in a small voice.

There was nowhere else for the shorter CSI to go except down, if he wanted to get out of the place. Flack stared at his friend with a deadpan expression.

"We gonna talk or what?" Flack asked in a mild tone. He permitted his disappointment to show in his blue eyes. "Or is this high school _snubbin'_ business gonna go on, buddy?"

Danny seemed to brighten up somewhat when Flack called him by his usual appellation. It made Flack's brain ding like a bell.

_Shit_. It never occurred to Flack Danny was avoiding him because _he_ told Danny himself he didn't want to deal with Danny's dilemmas anymore. Shitshit_shit_. Flack had the impulsive urge to take his gun and hammer his thick skull with it. Flack, you stupid _asshole_.

"Danny, I …" Damnit, he was never good at apologies. "I didn't mean what I said. That night."

Danny kept his gaze on the stairs before him, shuffling one foot in silence.

Flack didn't even give a damn the cop at the main entrance could hear everything. He had to tell Danny now, while he still had the opportunity.

"I was _angry_, a'right? And you were _scarin'_ me." Flack maintained a pacifying resonance to his voice. "I don't like it when I see people I _care_ 'bout _suffer_, ya know?"

Danny looked up at that. His lower lip was sucked under his upper one.

"Yeah, that hasn't changed, Danny. Not one bit." Flack sighed. "'Course I still _care_ 'bout ya. You're my _friend_." He gesticulated with his hands. "Wha, ya think I'll just break our friendship over a trivial thing like one _quarrel? _C'mon, ya _know_ me better than that."

The bespectacled CSI fidgeted with his jacket lapel. "I was … in the wrong too. I just … ya don't hafta worry 'bout me. You have your own problems too."

Flack made an annoyed face. "Like what? Pickin' out my _ties_ and _shirts?_"

Danny's lips twitched. "Yeah. That _polka dot _tie on top of that _checkered_ shirt? That was one grave offense against every decent human being's fashion sense, man."

Flack burst into a cheery cackle. Now _this_ was the _real_ Danny Messer.

"Hey, _you_ bought me that tie, remember?"

Danny flashed a grin at him, and opened his mouth in a retort. The CSI started down the staircase, one foot on the tread below.

Abruptly, all the color drained from Danny's already sallow face. His features went slack, eyes wide like saucers. His thin figure swayed treacherously.

Flack tensed, breath gone from his lungs. "Danny?"

Danny's knee buckled.

The smaller man went down hard, knees and shins smacking brutally with a sickening crack against the unyielding timber. Momentum forced him forward, plummeting head over heels towards Flack. There was a fountain of bright red as Danny's temple rammed into the edge of a tread. A crackling sound as his glasses broke. The silver, durable case Danny carried in his right hand made loud, crashing noises as it tumbled down the stairs.

Flack's jaw sagged.

"_DAAAANNNNNNYYY!_"

The CSI landed in a crumpled heap on the floor at Flack's feet, upper body coiled inwards in a semi-fetal position on its side, hips and legs still sprawled on the steps. A small pool of blood instantly began forming beneath Danny's head, the red liquid trickling steadily from the bleeding gash across his left temple. There was another smaller cut on the left side of Danny's face, near his eye where the shattered frame of his spectacles had injured it. His CSI equipment holder came to rest upside down two feet away from his head. It stayed closed.

It had barely taken three seconds for the horrific fall to unfold before Flack's panic-filled eyes.

"Holy _mother_ of -" It was the cop who had stood at the main entrance.

"Danny, oh my God, _Danny_ …"

Flack frantically ran his hands all over Danny's body, checking for broken bones. When he found none, he fumbled through his pockets and yanked out a handkerchief, pressing it against the gushing wound. It was bleeding profusely by now, covering his friend's face with red, wet trails. Flack gently removed the damaged spectacles and wiped the blood away from Danny's eyes, nose and cheeks. His fingers and palms quickly turned crimson.

"_Call the fuckin' EMS. NOW!_" Flack roared. The other cop whipped out his mobile phone and dialed 911, barking terse details of their situation and address to the dispatcher.

A thunder of footsteps on the staircase above reverberated in the apartment building lobby.

"_Flack! _What _happened!_"

Flack looked at the man rushing down the stairs towards them. It was Hawkes, thank God. The former ME squatted opposite Flack behind Danny's back. They flanked the unconscious man and instinctively formed a protective periphery around him.

"He - he just … I dunno what _happened_, Doc, he just _keeled_ over and _fell _-" Flack's mouth suddenly couldn't work properly. It moved, but no sounds came out.

Hawkes' sturdy grip on his shoulder grounded him. The CSI looked him straight in the eye. "It's going to be _okay_, Flack. Help me lay him flat on the floor, okay?"

Flack nodded unsteadily. "Yeah … yeah." The homicide detective watched his white handkerchief gradually turn a scarlet shade under his stained hand.

"Okay, you hold on to the compress and his head and shoulders, I'll carry his legs."

"The ambulance is on its way," the unidentified police officer said to them, observing matters with anxious eyes. The man stood at a distance to give Hawkes and Flack space to shift Danny off the staircase and position him more comfortably on the tiled floor.

"Thank you," Hawkes replied in a heartfelt manner. After checking thoroughly that Danny indeed had no broken or fractured bones, he tried to examine the head injury. Hawkes gripped Flack's wrist, the one attached to the hand holding the bloody handkerchief.

"Flack, I need to see the wound. Please, let go."

Flack's hand wouldn't budge. Instead, the tall detective's clutch around Danny's shoulders became tighter.

"Flack, _please_. I can't judge how serious it is until you _let go_."

Flack stared blankly at Hawkes. Huh? He _was_ letting go. He peered down at Danny slumped against his chest, the flowing blood from his head soaking into his jacket and dress shirt. Danny's sunken eyes were closed, mouth slightly agape. The CSI looked like he was sleeping. Flack saw his hands were stiffened talons around Danny's shoulder and over the hurt temple. They wouldn't move. Couldn't move.

"Okay, buddy, c'mon, let the doctor help." Burly hands grabbed him from behind.

_No, wait _…

"No, the bleedin' hasta be _stopped _-" Flack's blood-red hands waved uselessly in front of him. The cop restraining him had pinned his upper arms to his sides, hauling him away from Danny.

"It's okay, the ambulance is _comin'_. Your friend's gonna be _alright_."

When Hawkes peeled away the saturated handkerchief, Flack filled up with an overwhelming amount of rage. He roughly elbowed himself free, breathing heavily and glaring at the policeman. The cop held up his hands in a mollifying fashion. The emphatic expression on the guy's face indicated to Flack he understood on some level what Flack was going through.

There was a sharp gasp.

Lindsay was halfway down the staircase, mouth open in alarm. Her hand partially obscured her lower face.

"Lindsay, your coat, please."

Once Lindsay reached the foot of the stairs, she immediately took off her CSI coat and handed it to Hawkes, who rolled it up and tucked it under Danny's head as a temporary pillow. She crouched next to Danny, touching him on the arm like she presumed Danny would be fine with it. Somehow, that made the fury within Flack flare up to phenomenal proportions.

Flack growled low in his throat. _Fuck_ this.

His tunneled vision was as crimson as the blood all over his hands and jacket. He stormed out, inhaling deeply and feeling as cold as ice even in the open under the hot sunlight. Some of the pedestrians striding by gave him a wide berth the moment they saw the blood stains on him. Standing on the pavement, he directed his gaze onto the opposite side of the street.

Vacant, green eyes gazed straight back at Flack.

The homicide detective's breath choked. Sonofabitch, it was _him!_

"_NYPD! Don't MOVE!_" Flack sprinted across the road, narrowly getting struck down by a yellow cab that honked him. "_DON'T MOOOVE!_"

The green-eyed, long-haired man whom he'd smacked into that day at Central Park was motionless, calmly watching Flack flying his way until Flack was almost on his side of the street. Then … he was _gone_.

"Mother_fucker!_"

The guy was already dashing a couple of dozen feet down the concrete, agilely evading the other pedestrians. Flack wasn't as cautious, knocking into some of the people and even forcibly pushing them away while he pursued the creep.

"_NYPD! STOOOP!_"

The man made an unexpected turn into a narrow alley between two bricked buildings. Flack slammed back first against a wall next to the entry to the alley, wrenching out his gun and unlocking the safety. His harsh breath and hastened beating of his heart resounded deafeningly in his ears. Goosebumps rose all over his body. He shivered.

Flack spun around, weapon brandished before him.

The alley appeared to be empty, apart from a hefty dumpster and some dented trash bins.

"_NYPD! Come out with yer HANDS UP!_"

The homicide detective's blue eyes darted wildly over everything in view. He saw no one, but his gut instincts alerted him that the other guy was definitely close by. Flack warily slinked into the narrow alley, gun swerving from side to side as he checked out any nooks and crannies for the perp.

There was a sudden, intense pressure in his left shoulder.

Flack blinked.

"Detective Flack."

Flack stared at the green-eyed, striking man with a bewildered expression.

_What? But … how …_

"So _you're_ the one he's so … fascinated about."

The nameless man stood before him, so close Flack could see the fine pores on the man's skin. One powerful hand was clenching his left shoulder, a thumb digging into a specific part of his flesh. Flack dimly wondered if the guy was putting pressure onto some special bundle of nerves there, because he was beginning to realize he was utterly paralyzed.

And at the complete mercy of this disconcerting stranger.

"Drop it."

Flack's arms were at his sides. The fingers of his left hand slowly unwrapped themselves of their own accord. His gun plunged to the ground and hit it with a sharp clank.

"Yes. He believes _you're_ the one who'll be strong enough to _stop_ him."

The two men stared into each other's eyes. Flack was perplexed. This was certainly the same man he'd encountered at Central Park near that hotdog vendor. Same long hair, same height, same facial features. Except, something didn't feel the same. Something was _different _about him.

"You're not strong enough yet. Not by a long shot."

Flack stood there like a mannequin, unable to even move a muscle. He was … numb. There was no pain. Whatever the guy intended right then and there, it seemed it wasn't to hurt Flack, much less kill him.

"You don't have much time left."

That was it. It was his _eyes_. They weren't blank or snake-like anymore like they were before. It was as if it was a wholly different _person_ who was speaking to him.

"And there's only so much time I can buy … on your _friend's_ behalf."

Flack's breathing hitched.

What was he _saying? _Was he implying what Flack thought he was?

The man's face drew nearer. There was something very similar to compassion in those magnetic, green eyes.

"My name is Abel. You _will_ remember it in the days to come."

He released Flack's shoulder. All the muscles in Flack's body prickled as feeling came back.

In a single second, Flack swiftly seized the gun from the ground, pointed it forward.

Into nothing but thin air.

The man who called himself Abel had vanished like a ghost.

Flack staggered in shock. He took a few moments to center himself, then sheathed his gun. His rattled brain informed him he should return to the apartment building and check on things there. See if Danny was being cared for his injuries. If the coroner had been there to collect the DB. If everybody hadn't already been totally freaked out by his actions.

Flack exhaled, body shuddering with an unexplainable trepidation.

Whoever Abel was, the man had just given him an ominous forewarning of death. There was only one friend he knew right now whose life would be threatened for reasons even Flack may not know yet.

_Danny_.


	5. Chapter 5

**Atop the Broken Universal Clock**

Fandom: CSI:NY

Author: Kimmychu

Rating: FRM (but it'll probably go up later)

Pairing: Danny/Flack (slash yet to be determined)

Content Warning: Violence, language, disturbing imagery

Spoilers: Set after 'Heroes', so spoilers for any episode previous to that

Summary: In the aftermath of his brother's near-fatal beating, Danny must deal with the consequences of his past ... and finds himself losing the battle little by little. Will Flack be strong enough to be Danny's anchor in his darkest days?

Disclaimer: Nope, characters still don't belong to me. But, man, I sure wanna give Danny a big hug after what happened in RSRD.

OoooooooooooooooooooooooooO

Author's Notes: Whoa, long time no update! In light of the last few episodes of season two, I decided to revise a lot of the storyline. So, the story now officially includes spoilers and scenes for all episodes before the finale. If I add _that_ one in, I guarantee you, Danny'll literally throw himself off a building from all the angst and grief in his life. This chapter's a long one to make up for the lateness. If any of the medical stuff is inaccurate, feel free to let me know. I did try to research it the best I could on the internet. By the way, Mount Sinai really does have such a program. Oh, and expect lots of DannyFlack angsty goodness in the next chapter!

OoooooooooooooooooooooooooO

** Chapter 5**

Danny appeared extremely young when he was asleep.

Stella brushed her fingers lightly over the unconscious man's brown hair in a preoccupied manner, her brow furrowed and her lips pursed. There was something about the younger detective looking so frail and limp on the bed under the blue, heated blanket that made her itch to beat the living crap out of whoever was stupid enough to piss her off that evening. The invariable beeping sound coming from the various electronic monitors displaying Danny's vital signs both agitated and comforted her. It was all but the one clear indication she had he was alive.

Her fingers brushed through the soft brown strands of Danny's hair once more. The long, white bandage stretching across Danny's left temple had more color than his skin, where it wasn't bruised or inflamed. Underneath the dressing, she knew there was a huge gash stitched together by over twelve sutures. She had been there with the injured CSI from the second she burst into the ER at Mount Sinai hospital, and saw his cleaned wound being sewn up by a doctor. She'd gotten the shivers when she realized how similar it was to observing Hawkes or Hammerback stitching up the Y-incision of their DBs.

She sighed. There was going to be a scar. However, it being so close to his hairline, it wasn't going to be that obvious. And if the doctor had done a good job, the scarring would be minor too. She unconsciously fidgeted on the armless chair she sat on, keeping her hand above his head on the pillow, the other hand wrapped around one of the younger man's under the blanket. Even under the generated warmth, his hand was still cold.

Danny's head shifted slightly on the white pillow, and he moaned inaudibly. Stella's hand on his hair stilled.

"Danny?"

The sunken, blue eyes remained closed.

Stella waited for a few moments with bated breath, only exhaling when it was certain Danny wasn't waking up anytime soon. Almost five hours had passed since he was admitted. Five hours of prolonged unconsciousness when he should have come around ages ago. She didn't need to be a doctor herself to know that was hardly a good thing.

Her brilliant green eyes focused through the interior glass windows of the room on Mac and a middle-aged doctor in a white coat in deep discussion, standing just outside in the hallway near the room's shut door. It was the same doctor who'd patched Danny up in the ER earlier that day, a Dr. Koshy with a soft, accented voice and compassionate brown eyes. Dr. Koshy was calmly speaking to Mac, whose troubled frown intensified at whatever the doctor was telling him.

She watched Dr. Koshy hand Mac what looked like a pamphlet from a folder he held. After Mac took a good glance at it, it was as if somebody had punched him straight in the gut. Dr. Koshy continued to speak coolly, gesticulating with one hand at the pamphlet. Her hand tightened on Danny's at Mac pinching his forehead with his thumb and fingers. It was a reflex gesture her CSI partner did whenever he was confronted with dire news that was beyond his scope of dealing with it.

Stella tore her gaze away when she saw the consternation in Mac's hazel eyes. It wasn't necessary for her to be standing there next to him to know how serious Danny's condition probably was.

Her eyes drifted to the nasogastric tube that had been inserted into Danny's nostril and went down his esophagus and into his stomach. It was held in place by beige-colored tape over his nose and one cheek. The tube coiled upwards to a soft plastic container filled with a clear solution, suspended higher than the bed so that gravity siphoned the liquid through the tube into Danny's body in a continuous feeding.

Stella stroked the scrawny bumps of the comatose man's knuckles with her thumb.

No, she didn't need to be a doctor herself to know why the nasogastric tube was there either.

She was most likely the first person on the team to realize what was happening to Danny. Oh, the younger detective was damn good at hiding things, but Stella didn't get her current CSI rank for nothing.

She had to admit some higher power must have guided her to the laboratory where Danny was that warm afternoon over two months ago. She remembered he'd been sitting alone at one of the desks, skimming through some files for an investigation he was working on with Hawkes at the time. She'd barely had the opportunity to chat with him ever since he returned to full-time duty in wake of his compassionate leave. With his back turned towards the door, he wasn't alerted to Stella's entrance until she had an arm around his shoulders, like she always did whenever she was checking up on him to see how he was doing.

The jump, Stella understood. The blatant recoil from her touch, that she didn't. She had been stunned by Danny's reaction, particularly the hostility in those blue eyes quickly wiped out by a blankness that was even more disturbing. She was well aware of how the younger man disliked being touched without permission, but over the years of their friendship, she also knew that she was one of the very few people from whom he didn't mind receiving affectionate contact. In a way, it was a special privilege. Stella could probably count the number of people whom Danny permitted to touch him whenever they wanted on _one_ hand.

When Danny tried his best to pretend he didn't just flinch away from her as if she carried the plague, her instincts yelled at her to make Danny talk to her. Something was undeniably _off_. She pulled every trick in the book to get him to open up, but it was no go. For the first time since she and the younger CSI became friends, Danny was pushing her away and throwing up those old walls around himself again. The same walls she and everyone else at the labs encountered when Danny was new and didn't know anyone and seemed standoffish.

No, the word you're looking for is _paranoid_, a voice in Stella's mind said.

Stella reluctantly released Danny's now warmer hand and leaned back in the chair, closing her eyes. One of her legs prickled with the sensation of pins and needles, and she extended it forward, wriggling her toes to drive the tickling feeling away.

She was a stubborn woman by nature. If she couldn't get through to Danny, she was going to get through to the others instead. And of course, the foremost person on her list was Mac. Her boss, partner and, most of all, friend. She somewhat expected his impassive response that Danny was simply going through a tough time with what happened to his older brother Louie. Didn't mean she got any less mad about it. Hawkes was surprisingly as aloof, though Stella suspected it was more because he wanted to look into the situation before forming any judgements. As far as she knew, Hawkes was quite chummy with Danny.

But not as chummy as Flack was with the bespectacled CSI.

The homicide detective's reaction to her concerns was palpable. Stella had been greatly relieved to find she wasn't imagining things in regards to Danny's drastic change in conduct. Everyone at the labs knew Flack and Danny had a close friendship, a bond that people couldn't help but notice the moment the two men were together in the same place. Flack was possibly the only person who could call the other detective Dan or Daniel and get away with it clean. Flack was also possibly the only person these days who hung out with Danny on a very regular basis, and knew Danny's behavior inside out, along with all the guy's quirks and habits.

Despite that, even Flack couldn't get past the impenetrable walls Danny had put up around himself. It had taken at least another _month_ after her afternoon in the lab with Danny before everyone else finally opened their eyes, and began to see for themselves that she wasn't simply being overprotective.

Stella ran one hand through her wavy tresses, bowing her head in lassitude. As cruel as it sounded, part of her was glad Danny was now in the hospital under professional medical care. She was pretty damn sure she would have had to wrestle with the younger man like an anaconda snake merely to get him to _seek_ professional help. Then again, considering how emaciated Danny was these days, she might have _won_.

And only God knew how long Danny would have gone on the way he was before he collapsed, if it hadn't been for his accident today.

The faint creak of the room door opening made her sit up and open her eyes.

Mac was still outside the room speaking with Dr. Koshy, oblivious to the fact someone else was visiting Danny.

Stella gazed into weary cerulean eyes under lowered, thick eyebrows.

"Flack!" She got to her feet and approached him, furtively inspecting him. "Where have you _been?_" She squeezed his forearm.

He didn't reply. Instead, he stood where he was at the foot of Danny's bed, staring steadfastly at the unconscious man with a grievous expression.

"Flack?"

His tie was missing. Stella glanced down and saw dark smears all over the homicide detective's black jacket and white shirt where the jacket didn't cover. Dried blood. _Danny's_ blood. She lifted the forearm in her grasp. Flack's hands looked clean, but reddish and raw in patches all over. She also noted the brownish red under the nail cuticles.

Flack was now staring at his hands too.

"Blood wouldn't come off." His voice was monotone, so unlike his droll tenor.

Stella ran a hand down Flack's arm in consolation. She pictured the tall detective standing in front of a sink, scrubbing madly at his crimson-spattered hands to wash away his friend's blood, face screwed up. She couldn't imagine what it must have been like for him to witness Danny tumbling down those stairs.

"Flack." She pulled at his wrists gently. "Come and sit down."

Flack listlessly shuffled over to Danny's bedside, moving as if he was struggling through molasses. Stella's worry for him increased.

No one had heard from Flack after he fled from the building where the Sandra Carpenter murder had taken place. He never showed up at the hospital, even after Mac and Stella had gotten there and met up with Hawkes at the ER. Hawkes had described Flack's hasty departure as the man running like a bat out of hell, and _screaming_ like one too. The former ME had accompanied Danny in the ambulance, and therefore, had no idea whether Flack ever went back to the scene or not. When Lindsay visited in the afternoon, after Danny had been treated and transferred to a private room in the hospital, the newcomer CSI confirmed that, indeed, Flack didn't return to the building. Neither did he pick up any of Stella's calls, or Mac's.

The homicide detective touched Danny's head with a trembling hand.

"Hey, buddy," Flack whispered hoarsely. "I'm so sorry I ran off like that ..."

Under Flack's large hand, Danny's head shifted on the pillow for the second time that evening. Like before, his eyes stayed shut.

"So sorry …"

The tall detective stood there by Danny's side, tentatively patting his comatose friend's head for a few minutes, biting his lower lip. Then, he abruptly swayed on his feet. Stella was immediately beside Flack, gripping his upper arm and throwing her other arm around his waist.

"Come on, Don. _Sit down with me_."

Flack silently complied, letting Stella maneuver him to the chair she vacated. He went down heavily, inclining his torso forwards and resting his elbows on thighs. He buried his face in his hands as Stella walked over to the opposite side of the bed and dragged the other chair there next to Flack.

"You okay?" Stella asked kindly. She ruffled Flack's shorn hair.

It was a while before Flack spoke.

"I couldn't move. Even after he was gone … I couldn't _move_."

Stella turned on her seat so she was face to face with the homicide detective. "What do you mean? Who's _he?_"

Flack kept his face hidden in his hands, and she squeezed the back of his neck tenderly.

"Don, come on, _talk_ to me. What _happened?_" She chuckled humorlessly._ "_I think you scared the _daylights_ out of Hawkes and Lindsay today."

At length, Flack raised his head and sat back, crossing his arms over his chest in a defensive manner. The lines and wrinkles on his handsome face were more stark than usual.

"There was this … there was this _guy_." Flack rubbed his face. "I dunno, the first time I bumped into him, it was at Central Park. The day the Brandon Hall kid was discovered there … Tall as me. Green eyes. Long, dark hair tied into a ponytail." He looked at Stella with tired, bloodshot eyes. "Came outta nowhere … and he … he implied that he had … _photographs_ of me."

Stella stared at the homicide detective with wide eyes. "Are you telling me … you went off chasing a _fan boy?_" She smirked. "What, Detective Flack has a _fan club _now?"

Flack cackled. The laugh was utterly devoid of mirth. "_Fuck_. If only it was _that _simple, Stel."

"Okay. So … who _was_ he?"

Flack stared into the distance at the floor beneath Danny's bed. "I dunno. But he gave me the creeps like no other perp ever did. The way he said it … trust me, if he was some kinda _fan_, he was the kind ya hope ya never, _ever_ meet." His hand stiffened into a fist. "And he was there. Right outside Carpenter's apartment buildin' today."

All of a sudden, the hair on the back of Stella's neck was standing on end. "You're sure it was the same guy?"

"Yeah. Definitely. He had the kinda face that stood out from the crowd. Like them model types."

"What if he really _is_ just some crazy fan of yours? You've been getting quite a lot of coverage in the news thanks to that blonde reporter. The one who's always following you around."

Flack huffed. "Saw the guy outside the buildin', right? So I chased him into an alley … and outta nowhere, he disarmed me with a single _pinch_ to my _shoulder_." He opened his jacket, popped two buttons on his grimy shirt, pulling the left side away to reveal a dark, circular bruise the size of a thumb digit, below the collarbone. "Not only that, he somehow _paralyzed_ me with the same move. Couldn't move a muscle s'long as he was pressin' his thumb into my shoulder."

"Maybe he's had prior _combat_ training …" The uneasiness in Stella's large eyes said volumes. "You should have that looked at by a doctor … You don't just _paralyze_ somebody with a _pinch_, unless it was affecting some major nerves in your body."

"S'okay. It ain't hurtin'. Didn't even hurt then." Flack tugged his shirt close, went back to crossing his arms over his chest, shoulders hunched. "Ya wanna know how I know he's not just some obsessed fan boy? He was spoutin' some ambiguous crap 'bout me … me being not _strong_ enough to-to _stop_ somebody."

The homicide detective looked at Stella with something akin to fear in his eyes.

_Jade eyes, filling Flack's entire world. No weapon. Numb. Vulnerable._

_Darkness staring him in the face._

"_There's only so much time I can buy … on your friend's behalf."_

Tense silence reigned, broken only by the sharp beeps from the machinery in the room. Stella's eyes were even wider than before.

"I _know_ he was talkin' 'bout Danny. _I know it_." Flack swallowed visibly. "I know you're thinkin' maybe I'm just too suspicious for my own good, but I _know_ he was tryin' to tell me … _somebody's comin' after Danny_."

Stella clasped Flack's arm in her hand. The muscles beneath her palm was rigid. Flack was seriously spooked.

"Don, did anyone else see him?"

"See him?" Flack appeared bewildered. "I … I dunno. It's like … it's like he's a _ghost_. One second he's there, the next … he's _gone_." He blinked. "And Danny was there with me … the first time. But he never saw the guy."

Flack suddenly glared at Stella. "Ya think I'm _crazy_, don'tcha? Seein' -" - he flailed his hands about - "- _invisible_ people."

She returned his glare with an equally strong and pointed stare. "You _know_ me better than that."

The homicide detective's ire instantaneously ebbed. He rubbed a hand across his eyes. "Sorry," he said in a small voice.

"It's _alright_. I was going to say, if I got Adam at the labs to create a facial composite on the computer, you think you can describe enough about the guy to make one?"

Flack blinked, thought about it for a moment then said, "Yeah. _Yeah_, I'm good with that. That'll help." He flashed a moderate but sincere smile at her. "Thanks."

Stella sighed, a benevolent smile curving her lips. "That's what friends are for, Flack." Her expression became grave once more. "As much as I know you believe this mystery guy's given you some kind of _warning_ about Danny's life being threatened … we shouldn't rule out the possibility that it really _is_ just some random guy who's messing with your head."

Flack scowled. He remained silent.

"Say you were to find him and arrest him now, you don't have anything to charge him with except, perhaps, minor assault on a police officer. And … seeing as you're the only person who's encountered him, there're no witnesses to corroborate your story."

Flack's frown deepened, but still, he said nothing.

"All we've got right now is your word that there's this guy who's, well, _stalking_ you and making vague statements about somebody you know whose life is in danger." Stella threw up her hands, an empathizing expression on her visage. "At this point … there's nothing much that can be done. I only hope whoever the hell this weirdo is, he's simply all _talk _and no action, you know?"

"Yeah." Flack glanced at Danny, motionless and asleep throughout their conversation. "Has he woken up at all?"

Stella shook her head. "No. He stirred once, but that was it."

"That's his doctor out there, right?" He motioned with his head towards where Dr. Koshy and Mac were outside the room.

"Yeah. Dr. Koshy."

Flack's big, blue eyes flitted back to Danny's pallid face. "He knows."

Stella gazed at Flack's mien in profile, waiting for clarification on that short statement.

"He was talkin' to Mac 'bout gettin' Danny into the hospital's _eatin' disorder program_."

Another weighty silence befell the two tired detectives. A few minutes passed. Flack stared at a spot on the wall above Danny's head, while Stella kept her eyes on Mac, who was now alone, his back turned towards Danny's room and its occupants. Mac's shoulders heaved once as he drew in a deep breath and let it out, ducking his head.

"He's going to be _okay_, Don."

The homicide detective stared at the other man on the bed for a little while more, then swiveled his head to look Stella in the eye.

"Fuckin' _right _he is. 'Cos _I'm_ gonna _be_ here to make sure he _does_."

Stella grinned, feeling immensely reassured at the restored fire in those cerulean eyes. Don Flack, Jr. was one man whose word she could always take at face value. She held his hand and gave him an encouraging squeeze.

"I know you will, Don. I know."

OoooooooooooooooooooooooooO

"Detective Messer had a serious concussion, but the MRI scan revealed no obvious signs of structural injury to the brain tissue. X-rays showed no skull fractures from the impact of his fall, which is very good. The head wound should heal up nicely with minimal scarring, since it was quickly treated," Dr. Koshy said, holding a plastic folder under one arm. "He is _very_ lucky."

Mac inwardly sighed in vast relief. He wasn't sure how he'd have reacted if the doctor had informed him otherwise. All good news so far. He braced himself for the bad.

"However, I am concerned by his prolonged unconsciousness," Dr. Koshy continued. "There are three grades of concussions. Detective Messer had a Grade Three concussion, the classic concussion, which is the most severe form. It is common for people suffering from a Grade Three concussion to lose consciousness for a _brief_ period of time, so ... the longer he is unconscious, the higher the risk that there _is_ brain damage."

Mac felt as if his facial features had become permanently set in a fierce, anxious frown.

"For now, all we can do is wait. I am hopeful Detective Messer will awaken by tonight." Dr. Koshy pushed the thin-framed glasses higher up his hooked nose. "Detective Taylor, I will need you to answer a few questions which will help me to resolve some of my … suspicions. You are his supervisor, yes?"

Mac's back straightened. "Yes, I am."

The physician opened up the folder he held and took out a pen from his coat pocket. "Does Detective Messer live alone?"

The CSI's hazel eyes glinted. He had a fairly good idea where the doctor's inquiry was headed. "Yes. In an apartment in Queens."

"Does he have family?"

"His parents live in Brooklyn … and he has an older brother." Mac's lips thinned into a line. "He's a patient here. Three floors up."

Dr. Koshy jotted down some notes on a notepad inside the folder, then looked up at Mac. "Was he recently admitted?"

"No. His brother, Louie Messer, was nearly beaten to death in a gang-related crime." The image of tears trickling down Danny's anguished face manifested itself so powerfully in his mind right there and then, it took a minute or two for him to add, "He's been here at Mount Sinai for over five months, in a deep coma."

"I see. Do you have any idea if they had a close sibling relationship?"

Mac blinked.

_Danny's face, flushed and wet with moisture. Blue, regretful eyes turned red and scrunched up._

"_They beat him really bad, Mac."_

_A tow of his arm, hand behind Danny's neck. Hot tears on his neck and collar. The sobs of a broken man echoing in his ears. _

"I spoke with Louie Messer once. They had their conflicts … but in the end, they will always be brothers."

"And his parents?"

Mac was at a loss for words for a minute. It was a considerable blow to him that, in all the years they'd worked together, he knew next to _nothing_ about the younger detective. "He's … a very private man. He doesn't talk much about them."

"Hmm." Dr. Koshy noted this down also. Mac heard the doctor murmur under his breath, " … possibly suffering from major psychological and emotional trauma due to brother's beating …"

It made Mac grit his teeth hard.

"Did Detective Messer exhibit unusual or extreme changes in his behavior since the incident?"

Mac thought back through the last five months, scanning every memory of Danny that emerged. He gradually realized in silent disbelief that he could hardly recall that many where the younger CSI was present. And even less, instances where he directly interacted with Danny and truly _spoke _with the man.

"At first, all of us at work gave him space. We anticipated at least _some_ change to his behavior, after what happened to his brother."

Dr. Koshy nodded. "Very reasonable."

"It was in the last couple of months that …" Mac inhaled deeply. "It became clear to us he was … deteriorating."

"Then, you are aware of Detective Messer's eating disorder?"

Mac looked sharply at the doctor, then closed his eyes and sighed. "Not until very recently."

"Detective Taylor." Dr. Koshy's brown eyes reflected kindness. "I understand how difficult it may be for you to accept that your co-worker, especially an _adult man_, is suffering from such a condition. Here at Mount Sinai, we have effectively treated many children, adolescents and adults for it, and yes, there _are_ men who make up a small percentage of those patients."

The physician rifled through his folder, pulling out a rectangular leaflet with a picture of the hospital on it, and some large bold text. He passed it to Mac, who took it after a second's hesitation. "We have some of the best programs for eating and weight disorders."

The black, bold words _anorexia nervosa _and _bulimia nervosa _burned Mac's retinas as if they were flames.

"I highly recommend that Detective Messer be placed under treatment as soon as possible." Dr. Koshy closed the folder in his hands and replaced his pen in his coat pocket. "A person should have a normal body mass index between 18.5 and 24.9. If it goes below 18.5, the person is considered underweight. A man of Detective Messer's height, at five feet nine inches, should have a normal weight of at _least_ 125 pounds and above."

Dr. Koshy paused for a moment.

Mac's fingers involuntarily curled around the pamphlet.

"Detective Messer's current weight is _112_ pounds," Dr. Koshy said evenly. "He has a BMI of _16.5_. He is, quite literally, on the borderline from suffering major health problems. Increased risk of heart failure, anemia, hypertension, liver failure, kidney failure, the list goes on."

The physician paused again, then said solemnly, "Should he choose not to undertake any therapy and continue as he is … he will only have a few _months_ to live. Perhaps even _less_."

Mac's vision greyed out. He brought one hand up to his forehead, pressing at it with his thumb and fingers. A migraine was pounding in his skull, but it was nothing compared to the chill that froze his insides. His legs felt numb.

"I will do everything I can to make sure that he _does_," Mac eventually replied. He bluntly ignored the little voice in his head that told him he might already be too late.

"Very well. If you have further inquiries about the program, you can contact our department of psychiatry about it. All the contact information is there," Dr. Koshy said, gesturing at the booklet in Mac's grip.

This time, Mac released a real sigh of relief. It turned out to be too soon.

"There is something else I must ask."

On the outside, the CSI was as stoic as ever. On the inside, the ice came rushing back, causing him to feel even colder within.

"Do you know if Detective Messer is currently in a relationship?"

"I …" Mac's cornered gaze darted away then back again. "As I said, he's very private about his life." He shook his head once. "I don't know."

The physician cut to the chase.

"There is extensive and acute bruising on both his knees and lower legs. There are too many to assume they all resulted from his fall. Based on the varying discoloration, he received a lot of them over an extended period of time."

Were his limbs still attached to his body? Mac was so taken aback by the conclusion he thought up, he couldn't feel anything.

"You think he's being … _abused_."

Dr. Koshy nodded. "It is possible." The doctor pushed up his spectacles a second time. "But, the lack of contusions on any other parts of his body, as well as the shape of the bruises, makes me suspect otherwise."

_Haunted, blue eyes on a handsome mien. Lightened clear by afternoon sunshine through his office windows. Some days ago._

"_Mac … did ya ever talk to Ophelia Dichiara again? After the case was over?"_

_Glance of curiosity at Flack. "Well, I visited her once. To explain why she did what she did."_

_Anxious frown, so much like his own when he brooded over things lost. Claire._

"_Did she … did her nightmares stop?"_

_Surprised hush. "She never mentioned them." _

"_How 'bout her sleepin' disorder? Did that stop?"_

_More surprised silence. "Why are you asking all this?"_

"_Say … say ya know somebody who … somebody who's goin' through the same thing." Flack tapping fingers on the table, an erratic rhythm. Restless. "He's leavin' chairs 'round to trip himself awake whenever he sleepwalks in his nightmares. Ya know it, and ya know he's hidin' it from everybody else." Shuddering breath. "And ya know he's harmin' himself too. And he won't get help. Whaddaya do, Mac?"_

_Tension. Perception. "A man can't be forced to seek help, if he won't admit that he has a problem in the first place."_

_Tormented, cerulean eyes closing. "He needs help, Mac. I can't get through to him." Eyes open, piercing stare. "You still can. He still listens to ya, Mac." Agonized frustration. _

"_You're the best chance Danny's got left."_

"Detective Taylor?"

Mac licked his dry lips. "I think I know how he got those bruises. It wasn't from physical abuse by another person."

Dr. Koshy's gaze was as intense as Flack's was that afternoon. "Are you certain?"

"Yes." Mac cleared his throat. "One of his colleagues reported that he has been … sleepwalking. Placing chairs all over his apartment to wake himself up."

"I see." A concerned frown made the physician purse his lips. "And this colleague is _sure_ of this?"

"Yes."

It was never a good thing when the doctor was noticeably worried. Dr. Koshy began to say something. Then a shrill ringtone emanated from his coat pocket. It was his pager.

Dr. Koshy's frown grew deeper at whatever he was reading from his pager. He looked at Mac with a resolute expression as he placed the pager back into the pocket. "I'm sorry, Detective Taylor. There's an emergency in the ER. I will be back as soon as possible to check on Detective Messer."

Mac merely nodded in response, watching the middle-aged physician hurry through the double doors down the hallway and out of sight.

The moment he was alone, his shoulders slumped. He ran a hand over his face, bowing his head, lethargy sinking into his bones. He was hurting just _listening_ to Danny's doctor describing the younger CSI's numerous injuries. He tried to think about what to do next, about their latest cases, the new evidence they discovered from the victims. And all his brain could do was repeat a single phrase over and over.

Mac scrunched his eyes closed at a particularly excruciating pain that zigzagged its way from one side of his head to the other. Nope. His mind was still reiterating that one statement over and over.

The thing was, he agreed wholeheartedly with it because it was the absolute truth.

"Mac?"

His CSI partner's soothing voice made his headache recede. Mac slowly looked up.

Stella stood beside him, touching his upper arm, a worried expression on her beautiful visage. Mac was surprised to see Flack was there too. The homicide detective must have arrived while he was still in conversation with Dr. Koshy.

"Mac, I'm going to take Flack down to the cafeteria," Stella said. "Get him something hot to drink, and eat."

Mac wanted to speak to Flack, although his scrutiny of the young man told him he wasn't going to learn much right now. Flack's heavy-lidded eyes were glazed over. The guy was completely lost in thought, somewhere else. He was also unsteady on his feet.

"What happened to him?" Mac asked in muted tones.

Stella huffed. "He had an encounter with … somebody _weird_." She shrugged at Mac's lift of his eyebrow. "It's a long story, I'll tell you later."

Her voice lowered. "I think it traumatized him. He went back to his precinct after that, bloody clothes and hands and all, and he got instantly sent back home. I think that's where he's been until he came around just now."

"Okay." Mac pinched the flesh between his eyes. "Try and get him to go home afterwards."

Stella smirked. "Ah, that's going to be a tough one. He's insisting on staying with Danny." Her expression became serious. "So, what did he say about Danny?"

The two detectives gazed at each other, Stella anxious to know and Mac disinclined to utter the answer. It was difficult to deny those compelling, green eyes. He never could.

"Not good."

Stella's expression stayed neutral. "But he's going to get _better_, right?"

Mac said nothing.

"_Mac_." His Greek partner squeezed his hand in hers. "He's going to get _better_."

The phrase that had been rolling in his mind over and over finally blurted out through his lips.

"I failed him."

Stella stiffened. "Mac -"

"I failed him, Stella. I knew something was wrong. I _knew_, and I did _nothing_," Mac said in a small, hoarse voice. "_I failed Danny_."

Stella's lips trembled for an instant. She bit her lower lip, then said sternly, "If _you_ failed him, then so have _I_." Mac's hazel eyes widened at this.

"You can play the blame game all you want, Mac, but it's _done_. We can't change what's in the past. But we have the _present_. At least … at least now, Danny's condition is out in the open. He can't run anymore. If he's _still _going to try denying he has a problem after _this_, it's time to _really_ knock some sense into that thick skull of his." She squeezed his hand once more. "_It's not your fault_."

It was astounding how a few words could make his vision blur with wetness more than a severe burn injury to his chest from an explosion had.

Mac felt a second set of eyes staring at him.

Flack was still there, gazing at him with old eyes filled with resignation. Mac truly felt like weeping right then and there at the lack of resentment or bitterness in the homicide detective's gaze, in spite of the things the man had said to him.

"Go on to the cafeteria," Mac said in a husky tone. "I'll stay here with Danny."

Stella sent him a smile of solace. "We'll be back in a while." She then turned to Flack, grasping his arm and steering the man towards the double doors to the elevator beyond. "Let's get you something hot to drink, okay?"

Mac waited until they were gone before entering Danny's room, closing the door behind him.

Danny was in the same position he was since he was transferred there earlier this afternoon. Mac had to stare hard to ascertain Danny's chest was actually rising up and down with each shallow, long breath. He blinked hard, clearing his sight.

For some reason, he was afraid of drawing near the bed where his protégé was. He had the ridiculous thought that Danny was somehow going to jump up in bed and point a finger at him, accusing him of everything that Stella firmly refuted only minutes ago. Mac laughed inwardly at himself, then strided to Danny's bedside. Now that he pondered about it, that would have still been better than seeing the younger detective like this, unmoving and ashen as a corpse.

Mac settled himself in one of the chairs. One of Danny's hands was sticking out from beneath the heated blanket, and he held it in his own, fervently wishing for Danny to return the grip.

In the despondent, quiet privacy of the room, Mac whispered, "I'm sorry."

The younger man's hand remained limp.

Mac lost track of time, sitting by Danny's side and staring blankly at the nasogastric tube attached to the other man's nose. He had to battle the urge to smash something apart. Or whip out his gun and fire it. Or grab Danny by the shoulders and shake him and demand to know why he was doing this to himself. Though the unconscious man probably had no clue Mac was even there.

The ringtone of his mobile phone startled him.

"Taylor."

"Detective Vicaro here."

Mac perked up in his seat, all senses heightened.

"We got another one." In the background, the CSI unmistakably heard someone violently throwing up, and another man swearing a long streak. Vicaro shouted at whoever who was there with him. "_Fuckin' hell! _Get Halguin the fuck _away_ from the damn scene 'fore he _contaminates_ it!"

The man who'd been cursing was now babbling. "Good God, _good God_, where the _hell_ are her _intestines?_"

Mac stared hard at Danny's slack face. He appeared to be just sleeping peacefully after a long day, free from any pain or suffering. It was a harsh contrast to what Mac was hearing via his phone.

"Couple of teenagers found the body on their way home from school."

Detective Vicaro was notorious for owning one giant ego and an even more cocky attitude and loose mouth.

Mac heard none of the other detective's usual brashness on the line tonight.

"My guys are _still_ tryin' to calm the poor damn kids down. What kinda _sick motherfucker _would do somethin' like this to a _child_ …"

Mac's eyes slammed shut. _Another one_.

"You better get yer CSI guys down here _fast_, 'cos I feel like pukin' as much as the next guy."

More nauseating sounds of somebody vomiting traveled through the connection to Mac's ear.

"We'll be there."

Vicaro quickly gave him the address of the murder scene. The call disconnected.

Mac covered his eyes with his hand. He let out a shuddering breath. The Brandon Hall case was giving him more than enough nightmares. He did _not_ need another horrible murder involving a child. _Nobody _did.

It took him a great deal of effort to press the number that speed dialed Stella. By the time she picked up, Mac had carefully slipped on his professional mask once more.

"Stella, tell Flack he gets to stay here with Danny," he said composedly. He squeezed Danny's hand one last time, then got to his feet. "Vicaro just called."

"We've got a serial killer on our hands."


	6. Chapter 6

**Atop the Broken Universal Clock**

Fandom: CSI:NY

Author: Kimmychu

Rating: FRM (but it'll probably go up later)

Pairing: Danny/Flack (slash yet to be determined)

Content Warning: Violence, language, disturbing imagery

Spoilers: Set after 'Heroes', so spoilers for any episode previous to that

Summary: In the aftermath of his brother's near-fatal beating, Danny must deal with the consequences of his past ... and finds himself losing the battle little by little. Will Flack be strong enough to be Danny's anchor in his darkest days?

Disclaimer: Nope, characters still don't belong to me. But, man, I sure wanna give Danny a big hug after what happened in RSRD.

OoooooooooooooooooooooooooO

Author's Notes: Whee, update! Just to let ya know, the entire outline for this story is finally polished and complete. So, according to my calculations, it'll end in about … 12-15 chapters more, give or take. Heh, okay, the majority of DannyFlack angst will unfold in the next chapter, but no worries, plenty of it here too. And hey. Thanks for all the reviews, guys. Appreciate it!

OoooooooooooooooooooooooooO

** Chapter 6**

"Danny, can you please set the table?"

"Okay, mommy."

Danny went to the kitchen cabinet and took out the usual dinner utensils and plates, those blue and white ones that mommy liked. He then picked out the usual table mats as well, old and faded in color but familiar. He felt her tousling his hair affectionately, smiling down at him.

"You're a good boy," she said. Mommy was now holding a large aluminum pan of lasagna straight from the oven. "I'll get the knives, okay? You remember what happened the last time."

Danny stretched up his hand and showed her his bandaged finger. The beige-colored plaster was a few days old and already peeling at the edges.

"That's _right_, you cut your _finger!_" Mommy placed the lasagna on the kitchen table.

All the plates, forks, spoons and knives were already placed in their regular positions on the table.

Danny frowned, suckling on the tip of his bandaged finger. That was funny. He didn't remember setting it up.

"_Louie! Alessandro! _Dinner is _ready!_" Mommy yelled in the direction of the living room where his big brother and daddy were watching television. "_Louie!_ Why can't you help me like your six-year-old little brother?"

Danny smiled at the sight of his older brother at the kitchen entrance, dressed in a white tank top and rumpled jeans. He climbed up onto his seat at the table, planting himself on it and swinging his legs back and forth.

"Aw, Ma, _girls_ are s'pposed ta work in the kitchen," Louie drawled, taking the cigarette from between his lips and blowing out a circle of smoke into the air.

Louie promptly received a hard smack to the head from their mommy.

"This is _my_ kitchen, and you do _not_ smoke in here!" She plucked the lit cigarette from his hand and chucked it into the sink, where it fizzled out.

The older Messer son simply rolled his eyes, made some funny faces and strutted to the table, playfully knuckling Danny on the top of his head.

Danny giggled. Louie was the coolest. Someday, he wanted to be just like his big brother.

Daddy came into the kitchen next, also smoking a cigarette. He loomed over Danny, a colossal, dark and comforting figure. Danny squeezed one eye shut at his cheek being affectionately pinched between his dad's calloused thumb and forefinger.

"_Alessandro!_"

Daddy puffed on the last of his cigarette, then went to the sink and stubbed it out inside it. Mommy made an annoyed noise. Both Danny and Louie snickered.

"Geez, cut me some _slack_, woman. Let a man _smoke_ after a hard day's work." Daddy had a gruff, deep voice that sounded like a bear's growl.

Everyone sat at their customary places at the table. Danny already had his fork and spoon ready in hands, waiting for mommy to dish out the piping hot lasagna.

"Pa, I need the car t'night," Louie said. He sniffed once.

"Wha' for?"

Louie shrugged defensively. "To see the boys, ya _know_."

Danny chewed distractedly on a giant mouthful of his food while he watched his big brother and dad talk, with wide, blue eyes.

"What, ya mean _Lucio Sassone's_ boy?"

"Yeah, _yeah_, _Sonny_, ya know."

"You're not going _anywhere_ until you finish your homework." Mommy looked angry. "And you shouldn't even be _driving_ yet!"

"Aww, Ma, _c'mooon_ …"

Danny's munching motions slowed.

"Edith, let 'im _go_."

Mommy shifted her glare onto daddy. "Oh, I _know_ why you want Louie to hang out with that Sassone boy. Huh, you're thinking to get in with Lucio Sassone, aren't you?" She gesticulated animatedly with her hands. "I _don't_ like him. I _don't_ like Louie hanging out with his son. _They're in the mob_."

Daddy looked away from mommy and chomped on a mouthful of lasagna. "That's _'xactly _why we oughta get in with 'em."

Peeking up from above his half-eaten dinner at his parents, Danny slowly put down his used utensils. Uh oh, mommy and daddy were going to fight again.

"Are you _insane? _They're in the _MOB!_"

"_Yeah? _So fuckin' _what? _Ya wanna live the way we do the _rest a' our damn lives_, huh? Who knows, we get ta know them, we could get good business, get some fuckin' _cash_ comin' in for a change!"

Daddy flung his fork onto the table. It hit with a sharp noise that made Danny wince.

"_Nothing_ ever ends well with the likes of them, you _know_ that!"

He felt fingers tugging at his floppy brown hair.

"C'mon, Danny, let's get the hell outta here." Louie wasn't happy either.

Danny slipped off the chair, running to his big brother's side and wrapping his arms around one of Louie's legs. He felt a large hand ruffling his hair. They walked side by side …

Into a dark alley behind one of the Tanglewood boy's usual haunts, a seedy restaurant and bar.

"_Looouuiiiiieee_, 'bout _time_ ya joined us, ya bastard."

Danny shrugged his shoulders, hunching inside his coat from the winter cold.

Zabo. Yeah, the guy's name was Salvador Zabo. One of the Tanglewood boys, like his brother.

"Who's the kid?" It was Sonny, chucking a half-smoked cigarette onto the grimy road and crushing it under his boot. He and Zabo were leaning against a black, sleek sports car that would probably take Pa five whole lifetimes just to earn enough money to buy it.

Louie slapped him on the back. "This here's my little brother, _Danny_."

Sonny swaggered towards them, eyeballing Danny from head to toe as he did. Louie and the Tanglewood headman smacked their hands together in a two-handed fist in greeting.

"_Daaanny_. Yeah, I remember yer older brother talkin' 'bout ya." Sonny stood before him, staring down at him with cold, calculative eyes.

Danny kept his back straight, staring back into the eyes of the man whom even his brother feared. Still, it was more than the winter chill that made shivers run up and down his spine. He'd noticed the inconspicuous gun hanging at Sonny's waist under his jacket.

"Louie says you're gonna be a _baseball player _when ya grow up, _hahn?_"

Danny didn't even blink. "Yeah. Gonna play in the big leagues."

Sonny cackled, a sound more abrasive than the icy breeze blowing around them. "Guess ya must be good with a _bat_, eh, Dannyboy?"

His brother Louie was still as a statue. "Sonny …"

Sonny inclined downwards and pushed his face into Danny's. The Tanglewood boy's breath reeked of beer and smoke. Upclose, Sonny's eyes appeared like a corpse's. Dead.

"_Yeah_. Someday, I could put yer arm to _good_ use …" Sonny cackled again.

"C'mon, Sonny, leave 'im alone. He's just a kid."

Danny couldn't help releasing a small sigh of relief when Sonny stepped away and shoved his face into Louie's instead. If he had to stare into those black eyes a second more, his soul might have been utterly sucked out of his body.

"So why the _fuck_ did ya _bring_ him here then, _huh?_"

Louie's expression was unperturbed and bold. "'Cos he's my _brother_. Brat needed somebody to watch him t'night."

The two Tanglewood boys locked glares for a few moments, neither backing down. Sonny appeared like a rabid lion, only barely restraining himself from going into a frenzy. Louie's expression never changed. Danny saw Sonny's hand move towards his gun.

His breath hitched.

Over a dozen feet away, Zabo approached with tentative steps, facial features contorted into a frown.

All of a sudden, Sonny threw his head back and laughed.

Zabo instantly relaxed, smirking.

"A'right, _a'right_, Messer, just _thinkin' aloud_, that's all. No harm in that."

Louie's brows lowered in a scowl at that.

"Danny." Sonny motioned for him to come closer. "C'mere."

He glanced at Louie, then shuffled up to the Tanglewood leader. His eyes were trained on Sonny's hand gripping the handle of his gun.

"Ya wanna be a _Tanglewood boy_, ah, Danny?" Sonny made a gesture with his head in Louie's direction. "Wanna be like yer _big brother_, hahn?"

The gun's metallic surface gleamed under the stark illumination from the sports car's headlights.

"Ya wanna be a Tanglewood boy, ya gotta be a _real man_."

Danny gasped when Sonny seized his wrist and thrust the weapon into his open hand. The metal felt extremely cold.

"What the _fuck_, Sonn-"

Danny cried out as he was roughly manhandled into aiming the gun …

Straight at the center of his tied up, kneeling brother's forehead.

'See, Dannyboy, the way I do it is …" Sonny was standing behind him, maintaining a painful, tight grip on his wrists, whispering into his ear.

"I always aim the barrel of the gun a _little_ lower …"

Gradually, the barrel moved downwards until it was pointing at the tip of Louie's nose. Danny's hands trembled violently. He swallowed down a lump in his throat. He tried his hardest to put down the gun, but his limbs wouldn't obey him. His brother's brown eyes were huge with terror and shock, scorching him with the power of a thousand suns.

"'Cos I like seein' the bullet hole right in between the eyes, see? This gun a' mine here likes to kick up a bit."

Danny blinked erratically under the blinding white light that shone down on them from all sides. Wait, this place … he _knew_ this place -

"C'mooon, Louie, ain't ya got anythin' to say to me, _hah?_"

The Giants stadium. He was at the Giants stadium in East Rutherford -

Behind him, Sonny snarled like a beast.

"Ya fuckin' _traitor_. Ya _wired_ me, you sonofabitch."

Danny started to hyperventilate. His hands shook even harder, the gun relentlessly aimed at his brother's face. No, _no_, it wasn't his brother who was killed, it was … it was that _teenager _Sassone kidnapped from the Bronx -

Sonny's lips were so close Danny felt them moving against his ear.

"Now's yer chance to show me whether you're worthy of bein' one a' us, Danny_boy_."

Against his will, his finger began to tighten on the gun's trigger.

Danny's head shook frantically from side to side, face twisted into a horrified grimace. Before his very eyes, Louie's face was turning dark red and black and swollen from streams of blood and forming contusions.

No, nononononono_no_ -

He heard a resounding click.

"Nono_NO_ -"

Sonny grinned, his face a devil's mask in shadows.

"_Bang_."

Danny screamed, searing wetness splattering his face, neck and chest, ferociously wrenching himself away from a howling Sonny …

And came awake with a loud yell, sprawled on the floor of his living room, his face and upper body wet with water from the formerly half-filled cup he'd left on his coffee table.

For a few minutes, he lay there on his side, blinking the moisture out of his eyes, giddy with disorientation. His dark blue sweater, where it was damp, stuck to his chest. It made him shiver anew.

Home. He was at _home_. He was _safe_. And Louie was -

Danny closed his eyes, resting his head on his arm.

_Fuck_. One of those _bad_ ones again. Where he always inevitably ended up murdering his brother in some way or another. Those were the worst.

He struggled to a sitting position when the wetness and chill was too uncomfortable to bear. He groaned, pressing a hand against his right hip. Great. _Another_ bruise to add to his already damaged body. Just what he needed.

His hand instinctively went up to the healing wound high up on his left temple. The stitches had been taken out a few days ago by his doctor, a nice guy called Dr. Koshy. He'd barely glanced at the black-and-blue area. He didn't really want to know how bad it actually appeared. Half his face was smarting enough to tell him he was far from looking his usual self.

_Really? You haven't looked like yourself in a very long time_, a voice that sounded a lot like Flack said inside his head.

When he was satisfied his tumble from the couch hadn't aggravated the mending head injury, the CSI pushed himself to his feet and shambled wearily to his bedroom. He ignored the mess of dirty clothes, strewn books and the random chair all over the floor. Just _looking_ at it all made him exhausted to the bones.

And cold. He was _forever_ cold.

He pulled out another long-sleeved, thick sweater from his closet, staring with half-lidded, glassy eyes at the open drawer. Shit. He was running out of clean clothes. He was going to have to drag all his used clothes to the laundry again. He hated doing that. People always stared at him.

Danny sighed, tugging off the wet sweater. He made very sure not to look into the mirror as he threw it into a plastic basket beside the bedroom door, which was already half-filled with other worn clothes. He was shuddering even more by the time he put on the fresh and dry sweater. A part of his brain was telling him it was all just in his head, that he was merely thinking it was infernally cold when it was, in truth, hot as hell itself. It made him huff a muted laugh.

He trudged back to the living room, curling up on his battered, comfy couch and swathing himself tight in the afghan wrap he usually placed there. He felt really tired, but he was doing everything in his power to not fall asleep again. Not if he was going to live through another nightmare like that anytime soon.

The television was switched on.

Danny's eyelids flickered.

It was the evening news. And Mac was on screen.

"Detective Taylor! _Detective Taylor! _Are there any updates on New York's most notorious serial killer yet?"

"Is it _true_ that you and your team have been unable to find _any_ DNA evidence of the Body Hacker at all at any of his crime scenes?"

Mac was striding swiftly for the entrance to CSI headquarters, being trailed by a huge rabble of reporters and cameramen from various news networks. They were ruthless in chasing after him, eventhough it was clear the detective had no intentions to speak with any of them.

"Detective! Do you have any idea if or when the Body Hacker will _strike_ again?"

"_Detective Taylor! _It's been nearly two months since the Body Hacker first struck, and the police haven't caught him until today. Is he going to continue terrorizing the city?"

Mac finally halted in his tracks in front of the familiar large, glass doors, and swiveled around to confront the crowd.

Danny's stomach sank at the sight of his boss' and mentor's scowling visage. The last time he'd seen Mac in person, the former Marine had been very, _very_ angry, and for good reason.

The intense disappointment in Mac's hazel eyes at Danny quitting the Mount Sinai eating disorder program, not even a day into it, almost hurt as much as hearing the news that his brother Louie had been discovered lying in an alley, broken and bleeding to death.

The unending camera flashes washed out the color from Mac's mien, causing him to look very pale.

"The Body Hacker may still be out there, and his murders gruesome … but he is, nonetheless, just a _man_. We are continuously doing the very best we can to find him and bring him to justice," Mac said in a composed tone and demeanor. "And believe me, we _will_ get him."

With that, Mac turned away and entered the building, closing the doors shut on a teeming throng of reporters hungering for more answers and comments.

Danny picked up the remote and shut off the television. He huddled deeper into the afghan wrap, lying back down on the sofa in a semi-fetal position on his side. His stomach suddenly growled audibly, and he ignored it, like he ignored everything else around him.

Mac's voice had echoed deafeningly in his living room, when the man had paid him a totally unexpected visit at his apartment over a week ago.

"_You quit? You quit the program, Danny?" _

_Saddened hazel eyes, boring two holes into his skull. _

_Nodding, eyes averted. _

"_After all this time … if I never called up the hospital and found out the truth, you'd never have told me, would you? You'd have let me believe you were still there in the program instead … instead of …" Frustrated sweep of arms over the cluttered living area. "All this."_

_Stillness, stillness that said a thousand words._

_Anger filling up his boss' voice. "Do you have any idea at all how dangerous your current condition is?" Volume rising. "Danny, if you continue this way, you are going to DIE."_

"_I know what Dr. Koshy said." Small voice. Shrinking under the ire of the man he looked up to so much._

"_So. Why. Did. You. Quit?"_

"_Because they can't help me."_

_His mentor's visage screwing up. "Danny -"_

"_Because no one can." Staring with crushed blue eyes into wide, crestfallen hazel ones._

"_Not even you."_

Danny hid his face in the soft afghan wrap, eyes squeezed shut. He kept telling himself it was the water from before that was making the cloth over his face moist. Why did he _say_ that? Why was he so fucking _stupid? _He was damn lucky Mac hadn't _fired_ him yet. He had driven Flack away. Now, he'd successfully driven away the one other man who might have possibly and earnestly cared about his welfare.

_Fantastic_.

He got up again, holding the afghan wrap around his shoulders and torso, heading for the kitchen. It was painful for him to kneel on his knees. The contusions that were there hadn't completely faded away yet, not to mention the ones all over his shins. He didn't even want to _think_ about the new ones he received after he fell down those stairs at the Carpenter crime scene.

Hell, at least the damn fall made him forget everything that happened that day. From what Hawkes had mentioned about it when he visited Danny at the hospital, there hadn't been anything worth remembering. Unless Danny liked thinking about a dead woman's rotting innards.

The imagery from that alone drove the CSI to frenetically rummage around in the cupboard under the sink, until he got his hands on that bottle of Jack Daniels he hid there. It was three-quarters full, the bronze-colored liquid sloshing around inside as he uncapped it and took a substantial gulp. The alcohol burned his throat like fire, and he coughed scratchily, tears overflowing his blue eyes. Damn, the stuff was _strong_.

Danny couldn't be bothered to get a glass, simply taking the whole bottle with him back to the living room. He nudged away the empty cup at the base of the couch with one sock-covered foot, taking another swig. The Flack-voice in his head spoke up again.

_Eatin', Messer. Not drinkin' freakin' alcohol. _

In childish defiance, he held the bottle to his lips and drank some more. It was beginning to burn less and make the pain inside and out go away.

_No, it ain't makin' the pain go away. You just think it does. Stop it, Danny._

Danny let the capped Jack Daniels land on its side on the coffee table with a piercing clang. He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand, told the grating voice in his mind to get the fuck lost. And then he laughed aloud at himself, the sound bordering on manic.

Wow, gee. He was having fights with an imaginary voice in his head that sounded a lot like one of his best friends. Or was that _former _best friend?

The CSI covered his sore eyes with a hand. The whole place was spinning.

Before the voice in his brain yapped once more, he let out an acute cry of fury. The sound reverberated in the apartment.

He covered his ears instead, scrunching his eyes shut.

Yep. He was officially fucking insane.

Not that he didn't know that already for ages. His last girlfriend was more than happy to remind him of that right before she dumped him months ago. Except he was still convinced _she_ was the fucking crazy one. What kind of woman hopped into bed with a guy just because he kinda looked like her ex and had the same name, and then expected him to _be_ like the ex? _Shit_.

Danny felt the powerful alcohol roiling around in his empty stomach, making him feel sick, but not in the typical throwing up way. He slid back into his original semi-fetal position on the sofa, curling up under the afghan wrap. He sniffled.

His head hurt. His legs hurt. His eyes hurt. _Everything_ hurt.

His eyelids fluttered.

So tired. Maybe he'd feel better if he slept some more. He didn't hurt in his sleep, even with the nightmares plaguing him.

Danny's blue eyes closed.

In the silence, a single name was murmured from the lips of the CSI, a hushed plea for help from a blue-eyed man who wasn't there to hear it.

OoooooooooooooooooooooooooO

Flack's teeth were grinding together as he parked his car outside Danny's apartment building. Today, unlike the previous days of the week, had been much better. Cases were simple and clear cut. The perps had been caught and duly punished. No children were dead. That was a good thing in Flack's books, any day, any time.

Today had been a good day. Yet, there was a sudden bitterness developing inside him once he was driving down the street where Danny's place was located.

He made a rumbling sound in his throat, thick eyebrows low in a scowl. Today _had_ been a good day, a nice day. An all-around, he-wished-it-was-like-this-at-work-everyday kind of day. And all it had taken to ruin his good day was one sentence from a stoic Mac.

"_Danny quit the program."_

He sat in his car, staring at the security-locked front door of the apartment building for a while. For the first time since their friendship began, he had no idea about how to approach the guy who used to be his closest friend. Last time he was here at Danny's apartment … Flack scratched at his neck above his tie, frown intensifying. That night had ended bad. Real bad. And that awful day at the Sandra Carpenter murder scene had been worse.

The homicide detective sighed heavily, and got out of his car, holding a plastic bag that carried a large, closed box of pepperoni pizza. He had no clue how Danny was going to react to seeing him again after the past weeks of going incognito on the guy. The statement he made to Stella that evening at the hospital after Danny's accident struck him hard now. He'd sworn he was going to stick to the CSI like super glue until his friend was alright.

Well. That was something of a problem if he never visited Danny _once_ since Danny woke up on the second day of his stay at Mount Sinai.

Flack's fingers moved automatically over the numbers of the front door's security keypad. He'd committed the security passcode to memory immediately the moment Danny informed him of it so many years ago. Geez, he was going to have to talk with the superintendent of the place. Leaving the passcode the same for _years_ was not good for safety.

He unconsciously fidgeted with the plastic bag handles wound around his fingers while he waited for the elevator to go up to Danny's floor. He'd be a liar if he said he didn't feel guilty about not visiting Danny all this time. In fact, he felt like absolute crap about it. And he sure didn't have the excuse of not being fond of hospitals anymore, as Danny apparently walked out of the place over two weeks ago without anyone's knowledge until Mac called up the hospital.

_Geez, fer cryin' out loud, _his mind said. _You're not his mommy_. _He's not yer responsibility_.

_You're his friend and he's your friend_, his heart said. _He needs you now, more than ever_.

Flack stepped out of the elevator, sauntering towards Danny's apartment. He had a small smirk on his lips.

Heh. Gavin always did say he followed his heart too much for his own good.

For a minute, his hand froze in mid-action of knocking on Danny's apartment door, his knuckles facing the dark red wood. What was he going to _say_ to the guy? Hell, what was he going to say without sounding like a complete _asshole?_

At the realization, he actually considered turning back and leaving. Then he figuratively kicked himself in the ass. Fuck it. Don Flack, Jr. was no coward.

He rapped his knuckles on the door, calling out Danny's name.

"Danny! It's Flack."

The tall detective waited.

No answer.

He sucked in a quick breath, then knocked once more.

"Danny! It's Don … I got some pizza here."

Silence.

Flack sighed loudly. Well, he should have expected he'd be disregarded. He couldn't blame Danny for doing that. He deserved it anyway.

But still. He had to try _one_ more time. Danny might be sound asleep. Like the last time. He knocked on the door again.

"Dan? Can we talk?" He bit his lip. "Please?"

Nothing.

He threw up one hand in resignation, ready to walk away before he seriously pissed off Danny or something. Somehow, his feet wouldn't budge. He stared at the apartment door's knob, itching to jiggle it.

Flack resisted the urge for a second, then reached out and clutched the metallic door knob. He twisted it.

And the door opened up.

He stopped breathing, blue eyes wide. What the hell? Danny never left his front door _unchained_, much less unlocked.

The first thing that popped into his mind was an image of a giant cobra snake, hissing, its forked tongue flitting in and out, tasting the air. Its green eyes void and deadly. Wait. Cobras didn't have green eyes.

Not like those of that creepy guy.

The hair on the back of Flack's neck was instantly standing on end, his senses heightened at their peak. He quietly placed the box of pizza next to the ajar door, one hand pulling out his gun. He carefully pushed the door to open wider with the other, and warily stepped inside.

It was dim. The only light in the whole place came from the lamp next to the front door, and another that was turned on in the living area. A short, rectangular lamp that emanated warm light onto a huddled, slumbering figure on the couch.

Danny was okay.

Flack released a breath he didn't even know he'd been holding, reholstering his weapon. Man, he kept getting more scares like this, he was going to keel over from a heart attack long before his time. He hurriedly retrieved the box of pizza outside, came back in and locked the apartment door, putting the chain lock in place.

He was pleasantly surprised when he switched on the main lights. The place was _cleaner_. Sure, it was still quite a mess, but it was cleaner by miles. The amount of used clothes lying around was significantly less than what he'd seen for himself before. Some of the books that used to be all over the floor were back in their places on the bookshelf.

On his way to the kitchen, he shifted one of the stools back to where it belonged at the kitchen counter. He left the pizza on said counter, shaking his head at the other stools still left here and there between where he was and the living room. Less dirty clothes, less book piles, but the furniture obstacle course remained.

Ah, well, two out of three wasn't too bad.

His gut instincts told him to check out the trash. A simple, black bin was next to the sink, and Flack removed the cover with its movable flap to reveal opened, empty cans at the bottom. He plucked each one out to better see what they once contained. _Hmm_. Spaghetti-o. Various Campbell soups. Canned fruits. Flack's cerulean eyes widened at one particular one that used to hold cocktail sausages.

Damn. Danny was _eating_ again.

A smile spread across the homicide detective's handsome mien, then it diminished rapidly. The open and empty cans were proof the CSI had attempted to eat more. However, it didn't necessarily mean the guy didn't puke it all up again. There was no way Flack could tell if Danny did that or not without asking his friend directly. He tossed the cans back into the bin and resealed the cover on top.

Flack treaded softly towards the sofa where Danny slept soundly. The shorter man was curled up on his side under his cream-colored afghan wrap, with only his head showing. He was sleeping on his right side, so Flack had full view of the discolored bruising on the upper left side of Danny's face. There was definitely going to be a scar on the guy's left temple, albeit a faint one. Mottled bruises surrounded the closed up wound. There were small contusions beside the left eye where Danny's spectacles had snapped against and injured that part of his face. Apart from that, the man actually looked better.

The taller detective touched the sleeping man on the head gently. Flack wanted to feel angry about Danny giving up on the eating disorder program. He wanted to be furious that Danny was running away from the problem. He wanted to be upset that Danny had become the one thing he thought his friend would never be. A quitter.

But all he felt at that moment, while he gazed at the boniness of his best friend's face, the dark rings encircling deep-set eyes, was immeasurable sorrow.

Flack pulled the afghan wrap closer around Danny's shoulder and neck. Violence and coercion were certainly not the answers to the issue at hand. The homicide detective learnt precisely that from his past. People who truly loved someone would never abuse or force their loved ones into submitting to their expectations.

Flack scanned the living area, and abruptly stilled when he laid his eyes on the transparent bottle of whisky on the coffee table. The Jack Daniels bottle was less than half full. Whatever good feelings he had from discovering Danny was eating again quickly flew out the window.

Danny starving himself was bad enough. Adding strong alcohol consumption to the mix was a major disaster just waiting to explode.

The tall detective scowled deeply, grabbing the glass bottle and stomping over to the trash bin to hurl it inside. It got stuck in the opening of the bin cover, jutting out like a miniature cannon. He growled, half-tempted to use his foot to pound it in.

The tiny cough that floated to his ears caused his wrath to disintegrate on the spot.

Flack rushed back to the living area, kneeling down in front of the couch.

He gulped visibly.

Danny's blue eyes were open.


	7. Chapter 7

**Atop the Broken Universal Clock**

Fandom: CSI:NY

Author: Kimmychu

Rating: FRM (but it'll probably go up later)

Pairing: Danny/Flack (slash yet to be determined)

Content Warning: Violence, language, disturbing imagery, angst

Spoilers: Set after 'Heroes', so spoilers for any episode previous to that

Summary: In the aftermath of his brother's near-fatal beating, Danny must deal with the consequences of his past ... and finds himself losing the battle little by little. Will Flack be strong enough to be Danny's anchor in his darkest days?

Disclaimer: Nope, characters still don't belong to me. But, man, I sure wanna give Danny a big hug after what happened in RSRD.

OoooooooooooooooooooooooooO

Author's Notes: Okay, I've decided to add angst to the content warning. It seems some readers are getting angst overdoses, bwahah. And so, finally, the major DannyFlack angst you've all been waiting for. This chapter is seriously long … did you know I originally intended to combine this one with the previous chapter? Yikes! This one's also for the Flack fans … the character hardly ever gets development.

OoooooooooooooooooooooooooO

**Chapter 7**

Danny's eyes were enormous and glossy, staring uncomprehendingly at Flack.

The homicide detective shifted from his kneeling position to sitting on the solid, short coffee table instead, in front of Danny. He did that very slowly so as to not alarm his friend in any way. The blankness in Danny's gaze didn't tell him very much about what Danny was feeling right now. The guy could be thinking anything from whacking him in the face to screaming his head off at his intrusion, or even just rolling over and turning his back on him.

Flack sent the reclined man a hesitant smile.

Danny drowsily got up to a vertical position, clinging onto the afghan wrap that kept him warm.

" … Don?"

Whoa. Danny was _smiling_ at him.

Flack's own smile became more broad. "Yeah, it's me, buddy. How ya doin'?"

Danny blinked a few times, a confused expression replacing the small smile on his sallow visage. "Don ..." He looked around his apartment, then back at Flack. "How did ya get in?" His voice was croaky.

Flack smirked sardonically. "Through yer _front door_. Ya didn't even _lock_ it. Do ya know how _dangerous_ that is?"

The CSI blinked again. His half-closed, blue eyes were bloodshot. " … I didn't?"

Flack resisted the impulse to sigh. He couldn't believe he actually thought Danny was on the mend. Perhaps he was, but it was way overdue for Flack's liking.

"It's okay, forget 'bout it," Flack said nonchalantly.

Danny didn't say anything, eyes searching for something on the coffee table. Flack pondered for an instant what the other man might be looking for, and then he figured it out. The taller detective's own blue eyes narrowed, lips pursed.

"It's in the _trash_."

Danny jerked, then went to staring at a spot on the floor near his sock-covered feet, lower lip sucked in. Flack stayed motionless, forearms resting on his knees, directing an impartial gaze at the shorter detective.

"How long has _that_ been goin' on, Danny?"

No reply, except for fingers fiddling with the hem of a black, long-sleeved sweater. Danny continued to stare at the floor.

Flack waited patiently. Fine. He'd outwaited tons of perps in the interrogation room before. He could play the waiting game as well as the next guy.

A couple of minutes passed in strained silence.

"Twice." Danny sounded like a little boy being punished for having done some bad deed.

Flack remained calm and collected. He had to be. He knew his friend well enough to know that getting all infuriated and aggressive now was going to get him nowhere. Danny reminded him of a tortoise sometimes. The more a person provoked it, the longer it would take cover within its shell, sealed up in its own little world. Oh, somebody could go the excessive method and shatter the tortoise's shell to get it out in the open.

And most likely … it'd wind up dead.

Flack's hands curled into fists. _No_. Anger was _not_ the answer.

"Twice what?"

The skinny CSI looked up at last. The man's blue eyes were watery. "I only drank twice." Danny rubbed the right side of his face in a preoccupied way. "'Bout a week ago. And … just now."

The homicide detective said nothing, merely maintaining eye contact. His handsome face was set in a neutral expression, but his blue eyes radiated an intensity that made Danny squirm where he sat.

Danny frowned, a semblance of his inner spark showing up in his large eyes. "That's _it_. I _swear_."

Flack stared at him a while more, then said, "I believe you."

Danny blinked.

"What? Ya thought I was gonna accuse ya of _lyin'_ or somethin'?"

"I …" The shorter man trailed off into silence.

Without a word, Flack stood up and walked to the kitchen, yanking the stupid bottle of whiskey out of the bin and leaving it on the floor. He carried the medium-sized trash container back to the sofa and set it next to Danny. Flack sat down on the coffee table again and pulled out one of the empty cans inside the bin. It was the opened cocktail sausage tin. He held it before Danny's face, a resolute arrangement to his facial features.

"Okay. Since we're bein' honest with each other here ..." He shook the hand that grasped the light tin to draw Danny's attention to it. "Did you eat this?" He motioned with his head at the rest of the empty cans in the bin. "_All_ of it?"

Danny glanced at the can with wide eyes. He then looked at Flack, quiet.

"C'mon. Yes or no?"

Danny blinked slowly, nodded his head a few times. "Yes."

Flack was inwardly overjoyed to hear that. Danny had looked him straight in the eye when he said it as well. Next, the important, one million dollar question.

"Did you throw it all up afterwards?"

The shorter detective's eyelids flickered. His gaze darted away to the side, and back to Flack's face a moment later. The brown-haired man chewed on his lower lip.

"_Danny_." Flack's immovable stare intensified. "I'll _know_ if you're lyin' to me."

"No."

Flack kept on staring at him, expression as neutral as ever.

Danny swallowed visibly. "No … except for the spaghetti-o."

Flack's lips twitched. "Why's that?"

Danny shrugged. "Was watchin' the news … they showed a photo of that boy's corpse. Ya know, the Hall case at Central Park."

The taller man flung the can he held back into the trash bin, making an irritated sound. "Shit. I remember that. Everybody blew a fuse or twenty 'bout it ... think that network got sued for it too. Mac's still pissed off somebody got hold of a photo like that. He thinks there might be a freakin' _mole_ at the labs selling crime scene photographs for cash."

The CSI didn't say anything. He was clutching the side of his head, wincing.

"Hey, you _okay?_" Flack stretched out a hand and squeezed the side of Danny's neck. Man, the guy was _tense_.

"Fuckin' headache." Danny hissed through gritted teeth, rubbing his right temple.

"That's what ya get for _drinkin'_ so much."

Danny glowered at the homicide detective, blue eyes flashing. It made Flack smirk widely.

_Theeeere_ he was, the Danny he knew.

Flack got up and gently pushed the other man into lying down on the couch. Danny didn't put up a fight, letting Flack tuck him in. That was Flack's most obvious evidence his friend was in some serious pain.

"Ya got aspirin 'round?"

There was no response. The taller detective glanced at Danny's face. Oh. The guy was asleep already. The CSI must have been more worn out than Flack presumed. Flack scratched his head, suddenly wondering what he was going to do while Danny napped. Go look for aspirin in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom? Have his dinner of pizza and then reheat the rest when Danny woke up? Watch some television?

Flack took a few steps between the sofa and the coffee table, and his foot collided with an object on the floor. It was an empty plastic cup, rolling in a half circle from his accidental kick. He picked it up, smirking in amusement at the teddy bear face printed on its side. Gee, he never reckoned Danny was a teddy bear kind of guy.

He juggled the cup between his hands. Yeah, _that's_ it. Since Danny wasn't going to clean up his apartment … _he_ could do it instead. Wasn't healthy to live in a dump anyway, and Danny needed all the help he could get to jump back on his feet.

The dark-haired man spent the next forty-five minutes becoming Danny's temporary housemaid. Collecting all the dirty clothes, folding them up and stacking them neatly into huge laundry bags he knew Danny kept in the cupboard in the bathroom. Placing all the books in their alphabetical spots on the bookshelf. Moving the chairs and stools back to their original places. Gathering the odd cup or mug lying around and washing them. Making up the bed and rearranging the pillows. The damn bottle of alcohol went back into the trash.

Flack was hot by the time he dropped the stuffed laundry bag next to its twin against the kitchen counter. He took off his pink-colored jacket and laid it on top of one black-and-steel stool. Phew. He slapped his palms together. _There_. The place appeared so much neater and cleaner. Just like it used to be, before everything spiraled downward for his best friend.

He loosened his striped tie, rolled it up and tossed it on his jacket. Now to find some aspirin and check if Danny was still sleeping or had his headache.

He headed to the bathroom, the one room in the whole place that, surprisingly, didn't need cleaning up at all. Sure enough, there was a quarter-filled bottle of the medication in the bathroom cabinet. He popped out two into his cupped palm, then got a clean cup of water from the kitchen.

Danny was sound asleep, but the guy was hardly at peace. He was beginning to writhe where he lay, the afghan wrap covering only his legs, an anxious expression twisting his face. He was also mumbling fretfully under his breath, words Flack couldn't catch.

Damnit. Danny was still suffering from nightmares.

"Danny."

Flack left the cup of water and pills on the coffee table, unsure of his next course of action. The CSI's frightened expression deepened, and a very child-like whine managed to leak out from between the man's closed lips. For some reason, that troubled Flack more than the thrashing of limbs.

"_Danny_." Flack went on his knees. He cautiously gripped the other man's shoulders and mildly shook him. "_Wake up_."

Danny gasped loudly, eyes snapped open, wide to the point the whites clearly showed around the irises. He was panting roughly, every muscle rigid like stone as he stared at Flack's face mere inches from his.

"Dan?"

"Sorry." The shorter man gulped. Loosened up bit by bit. His breathing slowed down. "Bad dream."

Flack kept his hands on Danny's shoulders, reluctant to break the physical connection. He was so close to the guy, he could see his own reflection in Danny's cerulean eyes. Beneath his right palm, he sensed the thundering heartbeat of the other man. Flack was nearly convinced Danny's heart was threatening to literally leap out of his chest.

"S'okay. I get nightmares too."

It seemed Danny was reluctant for Flack to remove his hands too. Flack felt his friend speedily calming down under his touch, slim body going limp and slack, breaths going in deep and steady. It was as if Danny was drawing newfound energy and composure from him into his own body.

The homicide detective suddenly remembered about the aspirin.

"Ya still got yer headache?"

Danny seemed to have not heard the question. He blinked, then said, "Lil' bit."

Flack turned around and plucked up the pills and glass of water.

"Here. Take these."

Danny sat up and swallowed down the aspirin without any protest, holding the cup with both hands as he finished the water. Flack sat down heavily on the sofa next to the CSI, quietly scrutinizing his friend with concentrated eyes.

"Sometimes I dream 'bout killin' myself."

Flack froze at the dispassionate statement. He stared in shock at Danny's profile.

"Sometimes … I dream 'bout bein' back in my childhood home in Brooklyn. With mommy and dad and Louie." Danny's voice choked slightly on his brother's name. "And sometimes … I dream 'bout runnin' from the Tanglewood boys, gettin' killed by them. But most times … I dream 'bout killin' my brother."

Danny toyed with the empty cup in his hands. "Sometimes I wake up in weird places in my apartment … even though I always fell asleep in bed. Took me a while to figure out I was _sleepwalkin'_, ya know? It was always weird … wakin' up in the middle of the livin' room or lyin' 'gainst the front door, legs and knees and arms all hurtin' from fallin'. Like somethin' was _missin'_ even when nothin' was."

Danny swiveled to look at him. "But yeah. Most times, I dream 'bout killin' my brother."

Flack was at a loss for words. "Danny ..."

The shorter man shrugged listlessly. Flack could see his collarbones protruding where the sweater's v-neck collar and afghan wrap didn't cover up.

The taller man wasn't sure what compelled him to say the next few words. His lips moved on their own accord.

"I dream 'bout seein' ya fallin' down those stairs."

Flack plainly heard Danny's jagged intake of breath.

"Ya fall. Bleedin' everywhere. And ya never get up." Flack clenched his fingers over his knees. "Haven't had it in a while now. Which is good 'cos I friggin' _hate_ that nightmare."

Both men stared at different spots on the coffee table in front of them, lost in thought.

Some minutes later, Danny said in a faint voice, "I don't remember it."

"The fall?"

"Yeah. Can't remember a thing after arrivin' at the buildin' and goin' up the stairs to the victim's apartment."

Flack straightened. "You mean … you've lost your memory of that _entire_ day?"

Danny cackled mirthlessly. "Yeah. Short-term amnesia. I doubt I'll ever recall what happened."

The taller detective shut his eyes and pinched the flesh between his eyes. Well, _shit_. No wonder Danny was happy to see him this evening. The guy had no recollection of them talking things out at the staircase, before the nasty incident. He obviously still thought Flack was mad at him and didn't want anything to do with his problems.

"Danny, we - we kinda talked things out that day. Right before you fell."

Danny pulled the afghan wrap tighter around his torso. "We did?"

Flack huffed. "Yeah. Whole lotta apologies, some bashin' on my fashion sense, the works."

The smaller man smirked softly at that. It disappeared after a second. Danny bowed his head. "What do _you_ have to apologize for?" His face was hidden from Flack's sight. "_I'm_ the one who's always screwin' up. Causin' trouble for everybody."

Flack was not pleased to hear the blatant self-loathing in Danny's rasping voice. Yeah, he was well aware Danny had a bad habit of belittling himself, but this time, Flack could tell Danny unquestionably believed what he said about himself to be true.

He rested one hand on the back of Danny's stiff neck and gave the guy a consoling squeeze. "That's _not_ true. Everybody makes mistakes, Danny."

The CSI made no comment in return.

Five minutes went by in grave silence. Flack left his hand where it was, rubbing his thumb on smooth skin near Danny's ear, and Danny maintained his half-lidded gaze on his feet covered in white socks. Danny's neck felt so narrow in his hand. He glanced down at the shorter detective's scrawny wrists. Did the bones ordinarily stick out that way? That wasn't right. Danny always did pride himself on having tough, muscular arms.

Flack squeezed the back of Danny's neck another time.

"Danny. Mac told me."

Those three words hung heavy in the air. The muscles under Flack's palm and fingers immediately hardened. Danny kept his face averted.

It was a while before Danny replied.

"Is that why you're here? To let me know I don't hafta go back to work?"

Flack was too stunned to respond for a second or two. "What the heck are ya on 'bout?"

Danny just wouldn't look at him. "Mac. Did he finally _fire_ me or what?"

"_Geez_, Danny, _NO!_ Of _course_ not!" Flack protested vehemently, throwing up his arms. "And for the record, I did _not_ come here 'cos Mac asked me, or anybody else." He clasped the right side of Danny's face, physically pleading with him to turn his head in his direction. "Danny, _look_ at me. C'mon."

The shorter detective resisted Flack, twisting his head even further in the opposite direction.

"_Danny_. _Please_."

Danny's whole body sagged. At long last, Flack succeeded in maneuvering his friend to face him directly. The homicide detective was appalled at the palpable despair on Danny's visage. What, did he really think Mac was going to _fire _him simply for quitting that hospital's eating disorder program?

Flack cupped the man's chin with his fingers and lifted Danny's head so they were eye to eye.

"I'm here … because I _want _to be here. Do ya understand that?"

Danny's lips were shaped in a downturned curve, eyes narrowed in skepticism.

"_I choose to be here_. Nobody forced me. And _nobody_ is_ firing_ you." Flack released Danny's chin, then wagged a forefinger. "But _don't _think I'm not mad 'bout ya quittin' the program. 'Cos I am. You were finally gettin' _help_, and even knowin' how bad things were for ya, you still _walked out_ on it."

The CSI began to turn away once more, and this time, Flack no longer had qualms about being a little rougher with his handholds on Danny's limbs.

"_No_,_ listen_ to me." Flack shook him, feeling the thinness of those once stout arms even through the afghan wrap and sweater the guy wore. "I _know_ you, Messer. I know you're not the kind of guy who gets torn down easy. You're the original boy from the _streets_. You're the one who doesn't take _shit_ from_ anyone_, the one who isn't afraid of _standin' up_ for himself. I know."

Danny was trembling.

"And I also know … you're a _smart _guy. You - you don't _do_ things without a _reason_." Flack freed his arms, letting his own fall onto his thighs. "Which is why … I'm _confused_, Danny. I just can't … wrap my mind 'round what you've been _doin'_ to yerself."

"I mean, I know you've gotta _reason_ for it. I'm _sure_ of it." Flack tapped at the side of his forehead with his fingers. "But ya gotta _help_ me out here, buddy. 'Cos … I dunno what to think 'bout this whole situation anymore."

Danny was now stock still, staring with wide, terrified eyes at the vicinity of Flack's chest. He looked like he was trapped between a rock and a really hard place. And was being crushed by both.

"_C'mon_, pal. _Talk to me_," Flack implored in a hoarse voice.

The smaller man stayed utterly silent and motionless for so long, Flack assumed the other man was deliberately ignoring him. The cutting bitterness he'd felt earlier that evening was flooding back in full force. Not at Danny, but at the invisible cage that ensnared his friend so effectively and cruelly. He was _this_ close to giving anything for Danny to throw one of his hissy, drama queen fits.

" … I can't _feed_ it."

Danny whispered it so weakly Flack thought he had merely been hearing things.

He frowned. "Feed what, Danny?"

Danny's mouth opened. No sound came out. When he couldn't force more words out, he gesticulated with his hands, trying again to speak.

" … the _pain_."

Flack suddenly felt ice cold inside. Feed the _pain?_

Danny's tongue was loosening. Flack stayed silent, encouraging the other man to continue.

"It's - it's been there … since that night." Danny's hands weaved on top of each other in a repetitive, hyperactive manner. His eyes flitted here and there in an even more harried way. "E-everytime I … _eat_ … it grows ..."

"In _here_." One of the CSI's hands clutched at his chest, right on top of the heart. Danny probably had no idea he was even doing that. "And the - the more I _eat_ …" His hand glided upwards to the base of his neck. "It starts to _choke_ me … and I can't _breathe_, I can't _move_ … can't do _anythin'_." The hand tightened, creating a self-inflicted strangling hold.

"So … so as - as long as I _don't_ eat, the pain stays down." Danny rubbed at his neck, swallowing visibly. " … and I can deal with it."

Flack's vision was blurry, a big lump caught in his throat. He never imagined it was _this_ bad. He was torn between wanting to shake his friend like a ragdoll and knock a whole lot of sense into the guy's head, and wanting to hug him tightly and tell Danny he'd be flattered to beat the crap out of the pain, without Danny starving himself.

He decided to do a tiny bit of both.

Flack tenderly enfolded the sides of the CSI's neck with both hands, shaking the man gently to get his attention. Danny appeared like he was very, very far away, his bloodshot eyes lifeless and bewildered. The man's hand was still at the base of his neck, bent into a claw, as if he craved to gouge out whatever was devouring him inside.

"_Danny_." The homicide detective ran a hand through his friend's mussed hair. It seemed to bring Danny back from wherever he'd wandered off to in his mind. "Answer me _this_, 'kay?"

"_Why did Louie do it?_" Flack asked determinedly.

Some animation returned to Danny's features. He glanced sharply at Flack, eyes wide as saucers.

"Why did Louie _do_ it, Danny? Why did he wire himself up, knowin' that there was a big chance Sassone was gonna _kill_ 'im, huh?"

Danny made a befuddled face. "He … he wanted to tape … Sonny's confession."

Nope. Danny still didn't get it. "Yeah, but why _that?_"

Danny blinked a couple of times, frowning, ruminating. "He - he wanted to clear my name. So I wouldn't … go to prison for somethin' I didn't do."

"'Xactly." Flack squeezed the shorter man's shoulder. "He did it … because he wanted you to _live_."

He could see his words hit Danny fiercely.

"_He wanted you to LIVE_. Do ya _understand?_ And - and this … " Flack made a sweeping gesture from the top of Danny's head to his waist. "Like I said 'fore, you're a smart guy, Danny. You tell me. Do ya think yer brother would want ya to _waste_ his _sacrifice_ by - by _starvin'_ yerself in some … some kinda _self-mutilatin'_ act of _atonement_ or somethin'?"

Danny didn't reply. His face was scrunched up beneath a hand covering his nose and mouth.

"No. No, he _wouldn't_. And you _know_ it," Flack said firmly. "You wanna make it up to your brother, Danny? You _live_. You move on with your life, you fight every battle that comes yer way with all you've got. You show him that his sacrifice was _worth_ it. _Live_."

The CSI was now covering his face with both hands. The taller detective heard a muffled, shuddering inhalation from behind them.

"Danny, this pain … _it's not really there_." Flack ran fingers through his own dark, shorn hair. "It's all in your _head_."

Flack definitely didn't expect the guy to laugh.

Danny dropped his hands to bare a flushed face streaked with wet tracks. " … you've been tellin' me that for the last _six months_." He barked another brief, gravelly laugh.

Flack scowled. What the, what did _that_ mean? This was only the _second_ time they'd openly discussed about what Danny was putting himself through.

"You're always talkin' in my head, tellin' me stuff." Danny made a rotating motion with one hand. "Like … eat more, stop drinkin', _stop it_ -" He clammed up fast, pulling the afghan wrap snugly around himself, shivering. Another throaty cackle forced itself out.

The wretched sound made something rend within the taller man. He stared helplessly at his friend. Was this what it was like for a man to ultimately snap and suffer a major nervous breakdown?

"But it's all good, ya know?" Danny suddenly babbled, almost as if he couldn't help himself. "I mean … better than hearin' all the _other_ voices, ya know? Or - or hearin' Louie _screamin'_ as I _blow his brains out_ with a _bullet_ -" - he choked, coughing for a moment - "Or feelin' his _blood_ all over my _face_ and my _body_ and -" The laugh that followed had a panic-stricken edge to it.

"_Dan_ -"

The shorter man's laughter amplified in volume, until he was hunched over where he sat, cackling like a madman with tears rolling down his cheeks. For the first time in Flack's life, the homicide detective was really scared. Scared that he was powerless to do anything to ease his friend's suffering. That he could merely sit there with wet eyes of his own, as Danny finally collapsed, face crumpling intensely, raucous sobs wracking his skinny body.

Flack instantaneously hauled the crying man into a crushing hug, careful even then to make sure he didn't push the injured side of Danny's face against himself. Danny's head was tucked under his chin, the rest of the man's body curled up in a fetal position on his lap. Rocking them back and forth, arms enclosed around his friend's quaking body, feeling wetness on his own cheeks, Flack was smacked by a great sense of déjà vu.

Gavin once mentioned that important events in life always repeated themselves, whether they were bad or good. They always repeated themselves, his former mentor said, because something about them remained unresolved, and they'd always replay themselves over and over until that something was confronted or worked out. When he last held Danny bawling his eyes out this way in his arms, the man seemed like he was eons away, detached from the situation. There hadn't been a resolution that night, just an illusory, fleeting escape.

It was different this time, Flack ascertained. He could tell Danny was wholly here with him, right now, right there, from the way the other man fisted his hands into his white dress shirt, the way Danny consciously nestled into his body for solace.

And Danny was saying something to him.

"Don …" The CSI's sobs were lessening. " … I don't wanna be like this anymore."

Flack closed hot, blue eyes, petting Danny's brown hair. At last. The stubborn bastard was seeing the light _at last_.

Still embracing the smaller man, the homicide detective shifted them both so that he was sitting back against the couch, allowing Danny to rest easier against him too. After a couple more minutes, Danny's crying jag was over. The man was silent and still, apart from the intermittent quiver of his torso.

Flack carried on ruffling the messy spikes of Danny's hair, the action a source of comfort to himself as much as it was to his friend. Whoever made it the unofficial rule that it was wrong of men to cry was a fucking idiot. An enormous burden had lifted off his chest when he let go and wept with the other man. He felt better, much better.

Danny wriggled backwards onto the couch cushion to relieve Flack of bearing his full weight. Flack let him, just gazing at the CSI with unguarded eyes. Danny's eyes were puffy and red, although the misery that filled them was gone. It was still a far cry from the usual Messer spark, but the expression in place was a positive improvement. The taller man could virtually see him gathering himself, contemplating private thoughts and coming to a decision.

"I don't think I can do this on my own, Don." Something snagged in Flack's heart at Danny's humble admission and little, sincere smile. " … I need help."

Flack felt light, like a sunny cloud. It was funny, him wanting to laugh and cry at the same time. "Okay, Danny. Okay."

Danny's smile widened some, then his eyelids fluttered. He inhaled deeply, rubbing at his right eye with the a knuckle.

"Bed?"

"Yeah. Slept on the couch 'nough."

The taller detective snorted. "C'mon. Up and at 'em."

Flack gently led Danny to his bedroom by the shoulders, resting one arm over them, like he always did. It was even better that Danny was tilting into it, like he always did.

All of a sudden, the CSI halted dead in his steps halfway to his bedroom, scanning his surroundings with stunned eyes. His gaze lingered especially on the two overstuffed laundry bags at the kitchen counter.

"Did you …"

Flack snickered. "Yeah, ya _slob_. You could have given a _junkyard_ a run for its money."

Danny's face turned red. "Thanks. I appreciate it," he said in a small voice. Then, he was smiling. "So whaddaya charge? A dollar an hour?"

"Hey_hey_, I'm the _expensive_ type, okay? And don't even _think_ 'bout makin' me wear a French maid uniform. That'll cost ya an additional three hundred bucks."

The shorter man laughed. It was the good kind, the kind that made Flack laugh too.

Danny yawned as he sat on the bed. The cream-colored afghan wrap slipped from his shoulders.

Flack went to switch on the lamp on the bedside table, then asked, "Ya hungry?"

"Ya brought food?"

"Yeah. Pepperoni and cheese pizza. With extra cheese. Yer favorite."

Danny smiled softly at that. "Maybe I'll have a slice or two."

Flack grinned, a beam that lit up his entire face. "'Kay. I'll bring it over. Hands or …?"

The other man wriggled his fingers.

The homicide detective chuckled and ambled out to the kitchen counter. The pizza was still warm. He glanced at the clock hanging on the wall nearby and was startled to see it was only a little past nine. Wow. Only over two hours had passed since he arrived. It'd felt like a millennium instead.

The two detectives munched on their meal in comfortable silence in Danny's bedroom, Danny sitting against the bed's headstand, and Flack sitting beside his knees on the bed. Flack grinned once more. He couldn't help staring at his friend eating the slice of pizza, albeit more slowly than normal. Boy, that was a beautiful sight.

When Danny finished the first slice, Flack was struck by a sudden bout of anxiety. He waited with bated breath to see if the guy was going to get sick, like before. But nothing happened. Except for Danny sucking on his fingers and requesting Flack for another slice. He had been more than thrilled to fulfill that demand.

Afterwards, once the rest of the pizza was gone courtesy of Flack's black hole of a stomach, Danny washed up in the bathroom while Flack cleaned his hands at the kitchen sink. The taller man felt somewhat guilty for listening out for any unmistakable retching sounds coming from the bathroom.

Fortunately, there was none whatsoever.

In spite of everything, Flack understood that it paid to be vigilant at all times. Particularly in this case, where it was so easy for Danny to tumble down the slope again. Drying his hands on a hand cloth, he recalled the Greek myth of Jason and his Argonauts, who'd spent decades on adventures so far away from the land of his birth. During one of his quests, Jason had been gifted with a sack that retained a mighty hurricane by Boreas, the god of the north wind. When Jason finally returned to his homeland and saw the harbor in the near distance, he supposed it was alright for him to sleep for a little while. It was a terrible mistake. Some of his crew, who suspected the sack Jason owned carried treasure, opened it up, releasing the great hurricane within. It blew their ship all the way across the world, and Jason had to spend another ten years sailing home.

Flack went to switch off the lamp in the living area, then headed for Danny's bedroom. Well, he wasn't going to make the same mistake of letting his guard down, not where his best friend was concerned.

The CSI was already on the bed, reclined on his side and facing the open bedroom doorway. His head peeked out from under the dark blue blanket, exposing the upper half of Danny's face. At Flack's entry, the other man opened his eyes, and they followed the homicide detective around the room in a warmhearted, grateful gaze.

Flack unexpectedly found himself questioning what he should do next. He stood at the foot of the bed, trying to make up his mind on whether to let Danny sleep alone, or stay with his friend. Danny spoke up before he picked a choice.

"Bed's big 'nough for both of us."

The taller man toed off his shoes, sauntered over to the opposite side of the bed, crawling under the blanket without any reservations. Danny had four pillows on his bed. Flack never did ask him why he needed so many. Flack laid down on the remaining two, letting out a low hum. Man, these were nice pillows. Danny had rolled over so he was now facing Flack on the bed instead, mere inches away.

Danny's eyes were half-closed. "Bedtime story?"

Flack made an amused sound, staring at the pastel-colored, intricate tiles on the ceiling. There was one story he'd longed to tell Danny for a long time. If truth be told, it was a story he'd never told another soul. Yet.

He felt Danny prod him in the side under the blanket. "You've been listenin' ta me rant all night. C'mon, I _know_ ya got somethin' to say."

Flack sucked in a breath. He turned his head to look at Danny. The lamp was behind the man, outlining Danny's shape with warm light, throwing the rest of him into diffused shadows. Even so, the CSI's blue eyes glinted clear as the moonlight that cascaded in through the semi-parted curtains of the bedroom window.

Flack exhaled. It was now, or never.

He rotated his head back to gazing at the ceiling, losing himself in deep-rooted memories.

"When I was a kid … I used to think it was my fault." Flack licked at dry lips. "Ya know, gettin' punched in the face after comin' home from school. Bein' beaten with a stick or an umbrella. Sometimes gettin' shoved down the stairs when things got bad."

He sensed Danny's body freeze. He didn't need to glance at his friend to know the shorter detective was staring at him with wide, shocked eyes.

Flack chuckled joylessly. "I didn't know why I was bein' hurt so much, but I thought … I was just a dumb _kid_, ya know? Maybe I _did _somethin' bad, and I just didn't know it, that's all. I thought maybe, 'cos of that, I deserved every beatin' that I got."

"It took - it took me _seventeen years_ … to figure out the truth. _Seventeen years_ … to understand that, just because it was one of yer _parents_ who was beatin' ya up … it didn't make it _right_." He paused for a moment. He didn't realize how painful it was to open up like this, even to the person he considered his closest friend. "Thing is … I couldn't have figured any of it out on my own, Danny. If it hadn't been for Mrs. Vaughn, I might _still _be the messed up kid I was then."

His lips curved in a nostalgic smile. "Mrs. Vaughn was my Mathematics teacher. Never was good at math, so I always drove her up the wall." Flack let out a more genuine laugh. "She had long blonde hair and kind, brown eyes … she always looked out for me when nobody else did."

For a few minutes, Flack quietly wondered where she was now. Considering she was already in her early-fifties at the time, she would be nearly seventy by now. He didn't even know if she was still alive.

"One day, I came to school with a black eye and split lips. I could barely walk 'cos my ankle was sprained. Everybody in my class was _horrified_ to see me … I remember one girl actually shrieked when she bumped into me in the corridor." He snorted, then went solemn once more. "Mrs. Vaughn talked with me the whole afternoon after school … 'bout what d_omestic abuse_ meant."

Flack had to clear his throat. He felt fingers intertwine with his own, and he tightened his hand around Danny's. It gave him the strength to continue.

"So after that … I was angry. I was _angry_. That I spent _seventeen years_ of my whole life blamin' _myself_ for bein' abused. Makin' myself believe that I _deserved _every punch and kick I got." He shook his head, sighing. "I was angry, Danny. Angry at all my _friends_, angry at all my other _teachers_ for not givin' a shit 'bout me, angry at the whole world. Heck, I was angry at _God_ too."

"And after Mrs. Vaughn opened my eyes and helped me to see the truth … I ran, as far as I could go, I just _ran_. I think - I think I must have run across half the fuckin' _city_ … I dunno. All I know is, I'm runnin', cryin' my eyes out, and this _gangsta wannabe_ gets in my way." Flack's hand involuntarily squashed Danny's in his grip. Danny didn't say anything.

"He gets in my face, and he wouldn't get lost … laughin' at me and tauntin' me, pushin' me 'round. I dunno, I guess … somethin' he said pissed me off real bad. And I just … punched him." He raised his other hand, brandishing a fist in the air. "Right in the mouth. Smashed all his teeth in. And I didn't stop." His arm flopped onto the bed. "I kept on beatin' the fuck outta the guy … couldn't _control _myself, ya know? Like somebody _else_ was doin' it, not me. And I kept on goin' and goin' … until …"

"He was sprawled on the pavement, blood everywhere. He was _cryin'_." Flack shut his eyes. "And I stood there over him … my fists all bloody and cut … and all I saw, when I looked into his eyes …" It was getting difficult to breathe properly. "I saw the face of the person who beat me up the _same_ way all those years … I became the person whom I _hated_ with all my guts."

Danny's hand gripping his was the anchor that kept him in the present.

"Nobody ever found out what happened. My old man might have suspected, what with him seein' me covered in blood when he picked me up in his patrol car that night. We never talked 'bout it." Flack licked his lips again. They were so dry. "After that day, the abuse stopped. 'Cos I was too _big_ to be beaten anymore. I stopped bein' afraid, and I started _fightin'_ back."

He smiled scathingly. "It's hilarious, ya know. How _spineless_ bullies turn out to be."

Danny was silent beside him, a hushed but reassuring presence. Flack knew his friend had listened to every word.

At length, Flack rolled onto his side to face Danny on the bed. He was grateful for the lack of pity in Danny's blue eyes, though he'd been ready for it. He had enough of the sentiment from everyone around him back during his schooldays to last a lifetime. He looked more closely and realized that Danny was gazing at him with … respect.

"You've never told anybody 'bout it, have ya?"

Flack's lips curved up. Heh, Danny's body was currently afflicted by poor health. His razor-sharp mind was another story.

"No. You're the first." The homicide detective bit his lower lip. "Probably the only one _ever_."

Beneath the dark blue blanket, Danny squeezed his hand. "Thanks. I mean … for talkin' to me 'bout it." The CSI suddenly appeared shy. "I'm honored ya trust me enough to do that."

The taller man smirked. "Yeah, well, I think we've moved up from the _chocolate_ and _flowers_ phase to the _sharin'_ and _compromise_ phase now."

Danny huffed out a muted laugh, eyelids fluttering close. Flack took the rare opportunity to overtly stare at the other man, examining every inch of his face inches away. Danny was lying on his left, so the discolored contusions were hidden by the pillow. That was okay, Flack didn't want to see them anyhow.

The brown-haired man was still considered too skinny for his height. It showed in the way the cheekbones and collarbones were noticeably prominent. Nevertheless, he looked so much healthier than he did before he was hospitalized. The tube feedings and monitored meal intake during the man's stay at Mount Sinai had significantly helped. And if Danny had stayed on with their eating disorder program, even more improvement would have been likely.

Some minutes later, Danny's eyes opened again.

"Not the bedtime story ya expected, huh?" Flack said inaudibly.

It was Danny's turn to smirk. "I'm not the only guy here who does things with a reason."

Flack acknowledged the statement with a small smile, then said, "I know how hard it is. To live with guilt over somethin' that's outta yer control. Somethin' that ain't yer fault. And yet, somethin' that ya can't help blamin' yerself for anyway." He had to give credit to his friend for maintaining eye contact and not looking away.

"I know how hard it is to break those chains holdin' ya down, to see things from another person's point of view without feelin' like you're betrayin' the people you _think_ you've wronged. It took me seventeen long years, Danny. But the important thing is … I made it out okay. I survived, in spite of everythin'. And so can _you_."

The CSI finally glanced away.

Flack twitched the fingers of his right hand, and found Danny hadn't let go since the beginning. He tightened his grasp around Danny's fingers, making sure the other man wasn't going to be able to yank his hand away.

"I want ya to readmit yerself into the program at Mount Sinai."

The taller detective was prepared for a furious reaction. He was thwarted.

There was no visible reaction from Danny at all, not even the slightest jolt. He had a glazed look to his blue eyes, the kind people had when they were unwillingly falling asleep.

"No." It was said placidly and without any resentment.

The reply made Flack livid anyway. _Damnit_, the guy had one _hell_ of a stubborn streak -

"They don't care 'bout me … don't need them," Danny whispered, eyes shut.

"_Danny_ -"

Those large, blue eyes flickered open one last time.

"I've got _you_."

Danny closed his eyes, falling fast into a deep slumber. Gradually, the fingers coiled around Flack's relaxed, going limp.

Flack was beginning to understand what Danny meant by feeling something so intense that he couldn't breathe or move or do anything else. Something that seemed to be clogging his throat and creating wet warmth behind his eyes. The difference between what Danny had been feeling all this while, and what he was feeling right then was … he recognized his emotion to be something he thought he'd never feel for another human being ever again.

He blinked numerous times, content to simply lie there with his best friend in the tranquil hush, watching over the sleeping man.

"Yeah," Flack whispered in a husky tone, smiling tenderly.

"You do."

OoooooooooooooooooooooooooO

Author's Notes: Just for your info, Flack's story is actually based on the real life experiences of someone who is very close to me. Guess that's why this chapter also has personal tinges to it. Flack's trial of helping Danny out of his suffering is also somewhat based on personal experiences. I am, however, happy to say that my friend is doing just fine now.


	8. Chapter 8

**Atop the Broken Universal Clock**

Fandom: CSI:NY

Author: Kimmychu

Rating: FRM (but it'll probably go up later)

Pairing: Danny/Flack (slash yet to be determined)

Content Warning: Violence, language, disturbing imagery, angst

Spoilers: Set after 'Heroes', so spoilers for any episode previous to that

Summary: In the aftermath of his brother's near-fatal beating, Danny must deal with the consequences of his past ... and finds himself losing the battle little by little. Will Flack be strong enough to be Danny's anchor in his darkest days?

Disclaimer: Nope, characters still don't belong to me. But, man, I sure wanna give Danny a big hug after what happened in RSRD.

OoooooooooooooooooooooooooO

Author's Notes: Oh, yeah. Many apologies for the slow updates for this story. Been busy as a friggin' bee. I nearly went crazy with the angst content, so I started another story called **One Week **to counter it all. I ended up writing five chapters in a row for that one, hence the lack of updates for this one. But no worries! This chapter is extra long. And I mean, it's the longest chapter by far in the story so far. For everyone's info, there's implied character death in this one. If you've watched Heroes, you'll know who I'm refering to. This particular chapter is also dedicated to all FlackAiden fans. I, too, would have really liked to see the two paired up on the show.

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** Chapter 8**

It was impossible.

She couldn't be dead.

Danny's breath caught as he slammed both hands against the glass of the building's main doors, shoving his way past a couple of people in business suits and outside into the approaching drizzle.

It was impossible.

Aiden _couldn't_ be dead.

A few raindrops struck the lenses of Danny's spectacles, trickling down the transparent plastic and distorting his already blurred vision. A distant flash of light high above made his eyelids flicker. He stood there on the sidewalk, trembling non stop, the iciness in the air all around him seeping through his clothes. Wrapping his arms around his torso didn't make him feel any warmer.

He sucked in a moist, ragged breath.

Somebody was laughing as they walked past him. Another person was talking agitatedly on her mobile phone, accidentally bumping into his arm when she brushed by him. Danny said nothing. He didn't even register the physical contact, staring sightlessly in front of him with wide, impassive eyes.

There was a far-off rumble of thunder, a portentous growl from the heavens. More droplets fell from the dusky sky, creating dark, damp circles on his brown jacket.

She couldn't be dead, he'd only seen her a few days ago and she was _laughing_ and _smiling_ and telling him to come over again soon -

He was walking, walking somewhere and he had no idea where he was going.

"_Danny, you gonna come over and try my chicken cordon bleu, right?"_

His frantic steps increased in speed. The pavement beneath his feet was becoming wet from the rain that now poured freely onto the concrete jungle that was New York city. The sound of his uneven breaths seemed to be all he could hear.

That, and the voice of one of his closest friends. His sarcastic, beautiful woman of a best friend.

Who was dead. Burnt to a horrifying, blackened crisp of bones and ashes.

"_You're gonna come, riiiight? I know ya love chicken."_

There were globules of water all over his glasses. There was more of it in his eyes, rolling down his face.

It was just the rain. That's all.

"_What? Poison ya! Ohh, you got a lotta nerve sayin' that, Messer!"_

This time, he knocked into somebody else, hard enough that he staggered and almost fell to his knees. He dimly heard the person, a man, yelling at him. There were other hands, kind hands that touched his shoulder or arm, kind hands that belonged to people asking him if he was alright.

He tried to reply, to tell them to leave him alone, stop _touching_ him, _bring his friend back _-

"_Ya better not expect me to cook for you anymore! And stop laughin' at me, ya ungrateful dork!"_

Danny ran.

He was no longer on the sidewalk anymore. Going onto the road.

A sudden, piercing screech of wheels on wet tarmac.

He instinctively dashed away from the source of the noise, heading blindly for where he assumed was the other side of the road. Car horns were blaring. Someone else was shouting at him now.

Or maybe _everyone_ was.

"_Danny, what have you been doin' to yerself?"_

He stumbled onto the pavement, jostling his way through the small crowd of people standing there. They had umbrellas open above them, protecting them from the freezing torrent from the skies.

He had nothing. As always.

"_C'mon, lie down here. Make ya some tea … think I still have a change of yer clothes in my cupboard."_

Danny kept on running. Clutching the lapels of his sopping jacket close together. His teeth rattled audibly against each other. He couldn't stop shivering. He was cold everywhere, except for his eyes. They seemed to burn like coals. The wetness running from them was equally hot.

"_Shhh, it's okay now, Danny … ssshhh, I'm here."_

His stinging eyes finally scrunched shut.

One of his boots caught on the rough edge of a slab of sidewalk.

He tripped, plunging fast towards an unyielding ground.

"_It's okay, I'm here."_

Another bright flash of illumination high up, followed by another roar of thunder.

There was new warmth oozing from the palm of his left hand. His silver-framed spectacles were on the pavement near his right forearm, still intact. He stared numbly at his badly scratched and bleeding hands. At the red blood contrasting with the pale skin of his palm. At the raindrops striking his stigmata of wounds with pinpricks of ice.

"It's okay, I'm here."

He blinked. The storm wasn't beating down on him anymore.

And there was a shadow looming over him.

"Danny."

He wearily lifted his head. He saw nothing except a shady blur bent over him, holding a white umbrella over them. A tall, familiar and reassuring figure. His lips moved silently.

_Aiden?_

Danny stared into downcast eyes as blue as his own.

At length, his voice found freedom in the form of a raspy croak.

" … Don?"

Flack said nothing, his sole response a thinning of his lips into a line on his handsome visage. His large eyes were glistening.

Danny felt a strong arm envelop itself around his waist.

"C'mon, we gotta get outta the rain."

He was on his feet now, swaying listlessly. Flack was placing his folded spectacles into his own coat pocket. Danny mulled over whether to ask for his glasses back so he could wear it again. There wasn't a point in doing that. He couldn't see anything with or without them. The moisture in his eyes was severely clouding his vision anyway.

Flack got a secure grip on him with one arm tight around his hunched shoulders.

"Stay with me, 'kay?"

Danny was walking once more. No, being led by Flack into some place that had to be a diner, from the various aromas that assaulted his sense of smell. Somewhere above him, a bell chimed. A doorbell?

"'Cuse me, ma'am, is there a restroom?"

Flack was talking to someone. Danny blinked numerous times. He squinted. A blob in yellow and white was moving toward them in a tentative but concerned manner.

"Yeah, it's in the back … next to the kitchens."

Without his glasses, everything was a blur of colorful splotches. However, up close, the yellow-and-white blob transformed into a short-haired brunette in her late thirties, dressed in a waitress' uniform. Danny felt a delicate touch on the back of his wounded left hand. He heard her gasp loudly.

"You're bleeding!"

He involuntarily jerked his hand away and shrunk from the stranger, burrowing against Flack's warm body. Why wouldn't people stop _touching_ him?

"Look, there's a first aid kit, in the break room." The woman strided away from them, changing back into a yellow and white blob again. "I'll show you where it is."

Danny could feel eyes staring at him, those of the other customers, while Flack guided him to the back of the diner. Their detached, indifferent gazes were like sharp, stabbing needles in his flesh. He bowed his head, keeping his scratched hands against his chest. Fuck, he hated it even _more_ when people looked at him like that.

A door opened.

A light was switched on.

"There's a couch here … if your friend wants to lie down or something."

Danny tried to stop shaking. He looked down at his hands. They wouldn't stop shaking either. His palms and fingers were covered in crimson trails and smears.

A drawer was opened, and then closed a moment later.

The waitress came back into view.

"Here's the first aid kit. There're some bandages and antiseptic in there." She was unfurling what resembled a white, rectangular cloth. "Here's a towel too."

"Thank you. I really 'preciate it."

Danny's knees decided to buckle. He sat down hard on what had to be the couch, slumping back with an exhausted sigh. He shut his eyes, turning his head sideways and away from the direction of their voices. Flack now had one hand around his wrist. Counting his pulse rate? He wasn't sure.

He shuddered violently. The chilly wetness was beginning to seep through his shirt under his waterlogged jacket.

"Is it alright if we have some privacy?"

"Uhm, well …"

"It's okay." Flack was rummaging for something in his pocket. Then, a flipping, leather-squeak of a sound. "We're both NYPD."

"_Ohh_, okay … _yeah_, it's okay." The woman paused. "He doesn't look too good. Should - should I call the ambu-"

"No, it's fine, he just fell down on the sidewalk, that's all. Thanks."

"Okay. Take your time … Let me know if you need anything else."

"Thanks."

A moment later, there was the sound of a door closing.

Flack moved away from him.

A click, the lock of the door pressed down.

Danny heard a heavy sigh.

Some rustling noises.

After a minute, he felt something soft and warm around his head, over his face. Flack was toweling his hair dry. Now he couldn't see anything at all even if he opened his eyes. For a second, Danny tensed up in resistance, then went limp on the couch, letting Flack wipe at his face and neck.

It was okay. This was Flack, not somebody else. It was okay.

The towel was removed.

"Danny."

He was being tenderly nudged in the shoulder.

"C'mon, buddy, you gotta take off yer jacket. It's _soaked_."

His eyes opened into slits. He struggled to sit up. So worn-out. He just wanted to sleep. And forget the nightmare of seeing Aiden's face superimposed onto that skull on that computer screen.

She couldn't be dead.

Hawkes _had_ to be wrong -

The homicide detective stooped over him again, helping him to strip off the wet garment. Flack had to literally _peel _it off. It was so wet the very act of taking the jacket off was squeezing water out of it. A very distant part of Danny's mind hoped the couch was water-proof.

His trembling intensified tenfold the instant the jacket was gone.

"Your shirt's kinda wet too … do you …"

Danny enfolded his own arms around his midriff, grabbing at his damp shirt. No, he still couldn't bear to look at his body himself, not even after the positive progress he'd made so far in his recovery. There was no way he was going to let Flack see him. Not yet.

"Okay … it's _okay_."

Flack swiftly swaddled his body in something warm and dry. It was the man's long coat. Danny tugged it tighter around himself, whispering his gratitude.

The homicide detective was kneeling in front of him. Flack's eyes were bloodshot.

"Gonna clean yer hands and bandage 'em, 'kay?" Flack said in a mellow tone.

Danny stared at his friend, or rather, the top of Flack's head, with half-lidded eyes. He never realized how gentle the taller detective's touch was. How those big hands could dab antiseptic at the cuts and scratches on his hands with some cotton wool so tenderly and efficiently.

It reminded Danny of another rainy day long ago, when he'd fallen during playtime at that playground near his childhood home. He hurt his knees pretty badly on the rough concrete ground, and they bled while he limped all the way home. Mommy and dad were at work, but Louie was there. Louie had spotted him long before he arrived at the front door, rushing out to meet him and carry him back inside the house.

It was only in the privacy of the living room, with Louie helping him to change his sodden clothes and Louie cleaning his wounded knees and bandaging them, that he broke into tears. Louie always teased him about being a baby and crying like one. But that afternoon, Louie did no such thing.

Danny would never forget the tight hug. Or those affectionate pats on his head. Or the way Louie wiped the tears away from his cheeks and told him it was alright, that his big brother was there now and nobody was going to hurt him ever again.

"See? _There_ ya go. S'okay now." Louie stuck the last piece of tape in place, patting it to make sure the bandages would stay.

Danny stared at his brother's thick head of dark hair. Louie was the one who had mommy's luxurious hair. He was the one with dad's brown hair instead.

"You'll be good as new in no time." Louie glanced up, his lined face crinkled in a rare and fond smile. "Don't worry 'bout the rain, Danny."

Danny felt his big brother patting his hands. Louie's fingernails were stained with tobacco.

"The rain … it don't last forever. When the rain stops, the sun will shine again."

Louie's brown eyes were old and sad.

"Dan?"

Danny blinked.

The eyes he gazed into were no longer brown, but blue.

And the face was similarly lined like Louie's, and just as calming.

A shiver ran down the CSI's spine. It wasn't 1980 anymore. The playground where he fell down and injured his knees had been bulldozed decades ago. His childhood home was sold just a couple of years after that. And Louie …

The blue-eyed man with the thick, dark hair touched the side of his face. The guy looked worried.

"Danny? Stay with me, buddy."

It wasn't 1980 anymore. It was the year he got trapped in a vault with a billionaire's corpse. It was the year his only brother was almost beaten to a bloody pulp by Sonny Sassone's henchmen, and now lay at death's door at Mount Sinai hospital. It was the year an incinerated body was discovered in a razed car, mutilated beyond recognition by intense flames.

Danny inhaled sharply. His wet eyes widened.

"Aiden's _dead_."

Flack's hand crushed his in a vice-like grip. Danny ignored the pain. The one in his heart overwhelmed it by far.

"_Aiden's dead_."

Through the blurriness in his eyes, he stared with wide eyes at the other man, pleading silently with Flack to tell him it wasn't true. That it was alright, and Flack was there now and everything was going to be alright.

"I know, Danny. _I know_."

Danny's wan face screwed up in anguish. He tried to shake his head, but Flack's hands cupping his face now stopped him from doing so.

No, _no_, Flack was supposed to tell him it wasn't true, that it was _okay_ -

"No." One of Danny's bandaged hands curled up, fingernails biting into an already hurting palm. "_No_."

Against his own volition, he swung his fist in an infuriated arc down onto Flack's chest. The homicide detective seemed prepared for it, taking the blow with nothing more than a grunt.

"No." Another punch.

"_No_." And another. And another.

"NonononoNONO_NONONOOO_-"

Flack was grimacing, grabbing his forearms in a half-hearted effort to halt his frenzied fit of violence. Some part of Danny wanted Flack to become enraged and aggressive towards him too, instead of letting him bombard more and more punches onto the guy's exposed chest. Some part of him wanted Flack to return the blows.

Hurt him on the outside.

So perhaps, he would stop hurting so much on the inside.

With his fists still pounding the other man, Danny head butted Flack in the center of the man's chest. He kept his head there, pushing against Flack, hoping it would be enough to get the taller detective to retaliate. He was screaming.

_Hitmehitmehitmehitme …_

He sensed Flack releasing his forearms.

He stiffened, awaiting fresh pain.

In the days to follow, Danny would never forget the tight hug. Of Flack's solid arms in a crushing embrace around him. Or the long fingers running through his damp, tousled hair in consolation. Or how soothing Flack's low voice was as the man murmured into his hair, telling him it was alright, that he wasn't alone and that the bastard who killed Aiden wasn't going to get away with it.

"We're gonna _find_ him, Danny." Flack sounded strange, like he was talking with his throat all clogged up. "We're gonna find the _sonofabitch_ who _murdered_ her, and we're gonna bring him to _justic_e."

All Danny could do was cling onto the other man's suit jacket as he wept in silence. Bury his face into Flack's dress shirt and tie that was getting saturated with his tears. Shudder from agony that no manmade medication or bandage could heal.

"We're gonna _get_ him, Danny."

Flack was warm and brought some hint of life back into his numb body. Flack was warm. Like the sun.

"_We will._"

Danny sobbed inaudibly, unable to say a word.

And outside, the heavens continued to cry with them.

OoooooooooooooooooooooooooO

It was oddly temperate for a late autumn night.

Flack stuck one hand into the pocket of his long, dark blue coat. Exhaled a visible wisp of smoke as he stood outside on the sidewalk, waiting for the others to come out of Sullivan's. He took one last puff on the half-burnt cigarette, then plucked it out of his mouth and put it out on the empty cupboard carton in his hand. It was the final one.

Scowling, he crushed the box and cigarette in his palm and chucked it into the trash bin nearby. Shit. He'd promised himself he wouldn't smoke anymore. And he didn't. Not unless a seriously nasty case popped up. Like those damn awful child murders. Or when he had to confront his dad and end up fighting with him over the most ridiculous of things. Fucking good thing then, that he never saw his dad much these days. Fucking good thing too, that those sickening murders perpetrated by that serial killer, the Body Hacker, ended months before. The murderer seemed to have vanished into thin air. As well as that green-eyed creep.

_Good_. He didn't intend to buy a new packet. He didn't need to be addicted to smoking again.

Flack strolled aimlessly up and down the sidewalk in front of the pub. An evening at Sullivan's never fell short of relaxing him. After all, it wasn't just the place that did it, but the people he was surrounded with whenever he was there.

Except tonight, his get-together with the team was something else. It hadn't been easy to stamp a smile on his face and laugh along while one of his best friends, whom he had nearly lost, talked about another one of his best friends, whom he _had_ lost. Every second of sitting there listening to Danny reminiscing about Aiden turning him down for being way out of his league had hurt like a bitch.

"_You might be outta Messer's league, Burn … How 'bout me?"_

Flack closed his eyes, lips downturned. A mild breeze swept at his shorn, dark hair.

Had it really been merely two weeks ago when he said that?

And had it really been only the day before that Stella had called him up and said that Aiden was dead?

"_I dunno, Flack. You're here with me, and I'm here with you. What does that tell ya?"_

Something inside his chest constricted painfully.

He glanced behind to his left, towards Sullivan's entrance. Danny and Stella were already out, standing to one side of the metallic, red doors to allow Mac and some other patrons to exit the pub after them. Lindsay and Hawkes had left a little earlier, Hawkes needing to attend to a family matter and the new CSI also having to leave after receiving a call on her mobile phone.

Flack had thought Lindsay's presence at Sullivan's tonight was … awkward. Mainly because she never knew who Aiden was, and, although nobody would ever say it out loud, she was there to replace Aiden.

And there was no way in _fuck all _Aiden could ever be replaced.

Especially not now.

Flack sniffed. Considering the reason behind their gathering tonight, he was halfhearted about excusing Monroe for her abrupt question to Danny about needing a ride or not, when it was obvious the guy didn't want to leave yet. Perhaps she basically asked out of courtesy. Perhaps she thought it was an advantageous opportunity to get into Danny's good graces that way.

His blue eyes narrowed as he stared down at his polished shoes. He remembered what Stella had mentioned to him yesterday evening, after she and Lindsay'd combed the car where Aiden's body was discovered. The newcomer had inquired about Aiden. Said that Danny spoke often about their friend and former co-worker. That she wished she could have met her.

Flack snorted, smirking mirthlessly to himself. Yeah. He had a pretty good idea why the new girl would want to have met Aiden. If Aiden was way out of Danny's league, then Danny was way out of Monroe's league. She was going to have to do _way_ better than that to get into Danny's pants.

The homicide detective took a few steps to the side, turned around then ambled back to his original standing spot. Well. Whatever the hell her reason was, he supposed he could excuse her. This time. But he wasn't going to forget it anytime soon. Trying to come onto a guy when he'd just lost one of his closest friends was seriously low in Flack's books.

He turned his head back in the direction of the pub's entrance. Stella had an arm around Danny's shoulders, huddling close to the bespectacled CSI while she said something to him. Looking closer, Flack realized that their foreheads were literally touching each other's.

The homicide detective smiled. Yeah. Danny really was on the mend, at express highway velocity too. The fact that the brown-haired CSI was so composed this evening was more proof Danny was much more emotionally stable than he was months ago. His outburst of grief in that diner's break room on the day they both learnt of Aiden's passing didn't count. Flack would have been shocked if Danny had reacted any less harshly.

He knew how much his friend had cared for Aiden. Had more-than-friends kind of feelings, even.

Danny loved Aiden.

Flack looked away, bowing his head to stare blankly at the pavement.

So did he.

His vision started to mist over.

He felt a heavy hand grasp his shoulder.

"Flack?"

Flack blinked a couple of times, then raised his head. He put on a small smile.

"Hey, Mac."

Wise, hazel eyes gazed back at him. Mac squeezed his shoulder once.

"You alright?"

It took a while for Flack to crop up an answer. "Guess I'm good as I can be."

There was a calm silence between them for a minute. Flack was grateful for it. It gave him the time he needed to inwardly get himself together in front of the other man. He couldn't afford to let the walls crumble now. It wasn't the right time yet.

"I made a promise to her."

Flack glanced sharply at the older detective.

"I made a promise to her that I'd capture Pratt and make him pay for his crimes."

Flack swallowed visibly. "You did."

Mac smiled in a sorrowful way. It was a smile that was filled with regret, one that conveyed everything of what Mac truly felt about the conclusion of Aiden's case. Seeing it had the unintentional effect of making Flack's sight cloud over once more. He knew exactly what the other detective was feeling.

The hazel-eyed CSI remained silent, and merely gave Flack's shoulder another sympathetic squeeze. That, too, said more to the homicide detective than any words Mac could possibly have uttered.

Unhurried footsteps signaled the approach of Danny and Stella.

Mac was the first to turn towards them, placing a hand on Danny's upper back and patting the younger CSI twice. Danny glanced at Mac with an uncommonly open, softhearted expression. Stella cast a closed-lip smile at her CSI partner and Flack.

"I'll go start the car," Mac said to Stella. Then, he said to Danny and Flack, "I'll see you both tomorrow. Have a good night."

Flack simply nodded.

He felt a hand touch his forearm.

Stella's large eyes gleamed beneath the bright, neon lighting of Sullivan's sign.

Without a word, Flack opened his arms and embraced the beautiful Greek woman, slanting his head on top of hers. Her arms were firm around his waist. He didn't mind. Here was another close friend he'd also almost lost. If Stella hadn't been forced to shoot her psychotic stalker of a boyfriend in her apartment, he'd have gladly done it in her place. Ten times over. Maybe he would have made the dead bastard experience everything Stella had to go through that night as well. A hundred times over.

He tightened his hold, and closed his searing eyes. Stella smelled nice. Like apricot. And lavender.

"How are ya doin'?" Flack whispered.

"I'm okay." Stella leaned back, looking at him tenderly. "Really."

The bruises on the upper side of her face had faded to minor shades of blues and black. But they were still there. The well-concealed despondency in her green eyes was still there.

"You were there for me, Don," Stella added, her lips curved up. "I'll always be thankful for that."

"Hey, s'what friends are for, right?" Flack cleared his throat. He hoped Stella didn't catch the slight break in his voice at the last word.

Stella's kind smile widened, and she gazed at him with warmth for a minute or two. She affectionately ruffled his hair.

"How are _you_ doing?"

With Mac, it had taken less effort to maintain his stoic facade. Stella, on the other hand, was different from the others, even Danny. There were certain boundaries around him that only she had ever crossed, certain things about him inside that only she had ever had the vision to see. He was sure she was aware of how close he was to falling apart within.

He inhaled deeply, sustaining eye contact. His lips moved.

"I'm holdin' up. Ya don't hafta worry 'bout me."

There ya go, Donny, one more smile for the show, a voice in his head murmured, just a little while more, and you'll be on your own. It'll be safe then.

The Greek CSI had a knowing expression on her fine features. She wisely kept quiet.

"C'mon, I'm a big boy." Flack made a funny face.

It worked. Stella laughed. Still, her melodious laughter had a tinge of melancholy to it.

"Take care of yourself, alright?" She gave him an affectionate peck on the cheek. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Flack didn't reply. The kiss suddenly reminded him so much of Aiden doing the same that he had to grit his teeth to keep his composure. He couldn't bear to look Stella in the eye anymore.

He felt her gently squeeze his hand in hers.

And for some reason, that straightforward action made his heart contract more excruciatingly than it did before.

When Flack looked up, he saw the two CSIs were standing a couple of feet away. Stella was talking to Danny once more, her refined brows low in a slight frown. She was worried about something. Flack couldn't hear what they were discussing. Whatever it was she was saying, Danny appeared to be in agreement with her. He nodded, and said something in return. Then, Stella hugged the blue-eyed CSI and bid them both farewell with a hand wave.

"Don?"

Danny was next to him.

"We gonna stand 'round here all night, or what?" The CSI smirked and punched him good-naturedly in the upper arm.

Flack jerked slightly, then punched Danny in the same manner, face flushed. For the first time in ages, he had no witty rejoinder to his friend's banter. Danny noticed. Flack could tell from the meaningful gaze the CSI aimed at him.

"C'mon, I'll take ya home," Flack eventually mumbled.

The homicide detective didn't recall much of the drive to Danny's apartment building. Parked outside. Danny said something about his heating not working. Something about whether he could stay over for the night or not. And Flack remembered that he'd been stunned by Danny's unexpected request. Sure, he'd stayed at Danny's place tons of times. But Danny at _his? _Flack had been even more stunned to realize the shorter detective had yet to ever sleep over at his apartment.

Of course he said _yes_, absolutely, no problem. _C'mon_, didn't the guy know better by now?

And so, there they were, some time later, nestled on his double bed under a thick, woolen blanket in the semi-darkness of his bedroom. Flack left on a single, small lamp, on the bedside table on his side so Danny could sleep undisturbed. The shorter man was lying on his side facing Flack, his hands sticking out past the edge of the blanket and grazing the homicide detective's forearm. The left palm was still bandaged.

Flack, lounging against the bed's headboard, carefully used his fingers to inspect Danny's hands. The scratches were already scabbed over and healing. They would be just fine. Flack covered his friend's hands with the blanket, then shifted his inspection over onto Danny's relaxed visage. The CSI was sleeping on his right side, and therefore, the left side of his face was bared to Flack's view. The bruises he had gotten after his accident were completely gone. The only visible indication now that Danny really fall down those stairs was the extremely faint scar that ran across the top of his left temple, at the hairline. It was hardly noticeable. With the way Danny combed his hair nowadays, no one would even know it was there, up close or not.

In his slumber, Danny took a deep breath, rolled forwards until he was nearly lying on his chest and stomach, face half-nuzzled into the pillow under his head. Now he was even closer to Flack, pressed against the length of the taller man's body from flank to toes. Flack quietly rearranged the blanket around Danny's shoulders and neck, tucking him in. He couldn't blame Danny for snuggling up close to him like that. It was getting cold. All Danny had on was a black t-shirt and a pair of thin track pants. And all he had on was a grey t-shirt and boxers.

Flack kept his gaze on Danny's sleeping form. He'd initially wished to be alone tonight. He had been very sure of it, until Danny asked to stay over at his place for the night. The conspicuous concern in those blue eyes … changed something within him. Or maybe, maybe he never did want to be on his own. Maybe he'd been in denial the whole night until that very moment. That he couldn't be the tough one twenty-four seven, three-hundred and sixty-five days of the year.

That he needed someone.

He sprawled lower on the bed, moving slowly till his upper body was supported by the two plump pillows piled against the headstand. Tugged the blanket over his arms to his shoulders. Exhaled audibly.

God, Aiden would be smacking his head by now. Telling him that it was Danny's job to be the drama queen, not him.

The corner of Flack's lips curled up. Aiden always did have the naughtiest smile, like an imp's.

"_So_. How _is_ the resident drama queen?" Aiden was pouring him some coffee. It smelled fantastic.

"He's doin' good, Aid. He really is." He thanked her when she handed him the filled black mug. It had _Big Boss _written around it in humongous, white letters. "He's eatin' like normal again, he's talkin' to everybody again, drivin' Mac nuts as usual -"

The long-haired brunette laughed at that, her brown eyes crinkled.

"Yeah, the resident drama queen is back on stage." Flack chuckled. He took a sip of the hot coffee. It tasted fantastic too.

"That's good. That's good." Aiden got her own cup full with the drink, then sat beside him at the kitchen counter. "I'm so glad to hear that, I really am."

She was dressed in a white sleeveless dress decorated with flowers. She looked gorgeous, lit by sunshine streaming in from the open windows nearby. Flack was itching to place his hand on her thigh.

"When was the last time ya saw him anyway?"

Aiden ran a hand through her dark tresses. "Oh _geez_, musta been a couple of weeks now." She tsked. "I really need to see him again. I know you guys have been real busy the last few months."

"Yeah." Flack frowned. "Don'tcha just hate it when a psycho serial killer decides to show up and terrorize the city?"

Aiden let out an understanding chuckle. "Hell, _yeah_. I gotta tell ya, Don, I'm kinda glad I'm not workin' at the labs anymore. I don't think I coulda handled those cases." She reached out to hold his hand. "You guys are all amazin', did I ever tell ya that?"

Flack intertwined his long fingers with hers, staring at her pixie-like face. Aiden wasn't the sort of woman who liked to make sentimental declarations like that. It was causing an internal alarm to ring inside his mind. He gazed into her big, brown eyes. There was something secreted, _veiled_ in those eyes of hers. Something that was hurting her in some way. His gut instincts told him something bad was going on behind the curtains in Aiden's life. His instincts had been right about Danny. He was certain he was right in this case too.

The big question was, why wouldn't she tell him about it?

Could it possibly have something to do with the case that required Mac to fire her?

"Hey, c'mon, you're pretty damn amazin' yerself, Burn." Flack smirked, attempting to lighten the mood. Like Danny, it would be a mistake to force her to talk. When the time was right, she'd tell him. She always did.

Aiden's smile gradually faltered. "So … what's the new girl like?"

Flack's smirk turned somewhat sardonic. Aw, man, Aiden was worried about the newcomer from Montana? He snorted.

"She's no you." He squeezed Aiden's hand. "She really isn't."

He was gratified to see the little smile on her face. Wow. He'd really missed it.

"I hear Danny's got a crush on her or somethin'."

The cheerless pitch of her voice really got to him.

"_Bullshit_."

His snappish tone made her look at him sharply.

"That's _not_ true, and ya know it. He's had a crush on _you_ for the longest time, and you _know_ it."

Aiden gazed at him expressionlessly for a moment, then grinned like the Cheshire cat. She glanced away, still smiling. "Yeah."

"_Yeah_, and I _know_ what ya said to him too." Flack guffawed. "He keeps tellin' me 'bout it all the time. I think ya hurt his feelings, man." He smirked widely.

"Aww, _c'mon_, Don, he knows I don't like him that way! He's like … my _brat_ of a _brother_ or somethin'."

That got Flack laughing again. After a minute, he gradually fell silent, tenderly fiddling with Aiden's fingers. They were soft and warm to the touch, feminine hands that he could hold all day. She would probably smack him on the head if he ever said that out loud to her.

And he wholly _did_ expect her to smack him when he said the next words.

"You might be outta Messer's league, Burn … How 'bout _me?_"

He waited with bated breath for the blow, his blue eyes already scrunched shut.

"I dunno, Flack. You're here with me, and I'm here with you. What does _that_ tell ya?"

His eyes snapped open. Her face was mere inches away from his. She was inclining forward on her stool, her hands on both his thighs. Her eyes were even more luminous this close up. He could smell her, a mild but spicy scent that went straight to his groin.

He stopped breathing.

She leaned forward some more, her lips brushing softly against his.

He angled his head, parting his lips.

Her hands glided up to his shoulders.

Somebody moaned.

The phone rang.

Aiden drew back.

And the moment was lost.

"Oh _shit_, I gotta answer the phone." She crawled off his lap, and he tried to drag her back.

"_Don_, I gotta answer the phone." She smiled in apology at him. "Be right back."

Flack rubbed his face with one hand, laughing to himself. Man, sometimes he had the worst of luck. He found out who the caller was, he was going to personally strangle the person with his own bare hands.

Aiden had the phone to her ear. She stood in profile view, so Flack could still see her face. Whatever good feelings he had from their near-kiss instantaneously dissipated at the stark expression on his friend's mien. The only word he could use to describe it was pure rage.

"Okay … Yeah, yeah ... Okay." Her voice was cold and unfeeling, so dissimilar from how she was talking to him mere moments before.

She put the phone down.

"Aid?"

She seemed to have forgotten he was even present.

"_Aiden?_"

She startled, glanced at him.

"_Don_. Sorry, I -" She gesticulated with one hand in an absent-minded way. "I - I hafta go somewhere, it's an emergency."

Flack got to his feet, all alert and perceptive. "There anythin' I can do?"

"_No! _No, it's - it's okay." Aiden walked up to him and ran hand down his arm. "Just somethin' I gotta deal with. It's okay."

Before he could hold her, she was dashing into her bedroom to grab her bag and whatever else she needed.

"Are ya sure? I mean, I could …"

Aiden came back out and quickly hugged him. "It's okay, Don, really." She rushed to her apartment door, then turned around and smiled at him apologetically once more. "I'm sorry, I really am."

Flack scratched at his neck, smirking good-humoredly. "Sorry for what?"

"Sorry that things got cut short."

He grinned. Geez, he wasn't _blushing_, was he?

"Look." She walked back to stand before him, grabbing his hands. "Why don't we meet up again? Are ya free next weekend?"

"I dunno, Aid. Ya know what our schedules are like." He shrugged regretfully.

"Tell ya what then. I'll give ya call when I'm free, and we'll see how things go, 'kay?"

Flack gazed down at her, biting his lower lip in thought. "Okay."

She flashed one of her brilliant smiles at him. "Great. I'll talk with ya later then. Lock up when ya wanna go."

Again, she was hurrying for the door.

"_Aiden!_"

She already had the door open. With one hand on the edge of the door, she turned around and looked inquiringly at him.

"If … if somethin' _big's_ goin' on with ya … you'd tell me, _right?_"

This time, the smile he received was one of those that he didn't want to see on her face. One of the sad ones that made him feel bad in the worst ways.

"Don … I … _'Course _I'd tell ya. I promise I'll tell ya _everythin'_ the next time we meet up. I _promise_."

"Okay." Flack sighed, then smirked. "You call me. _Tomorrow_."

"Can I call ya tomorrow tomorrow?"

Flack made a face at her.

"If not tomorrow tomorrow, then tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow?"

He waved her away. "Geddoutta here, okay?"

Aiden laughed.

The harmonious sound echoed in Flack's mind.

It was the sole place in the world he would ever hear it now.

He clung onto the memory of that bright Sunday morning as tightly as he could, recollecting each and every sensation of her body against his. Her voice, her silky hair, her mischievous smile. Her laugh. It was hard, so hard to remember her as she used to be, before the sick bastard rapist got to her, before the flames reduced her to ashes and bones.

If only he had made her talk to him that day. If only he had stopped her from answering that call. If only …

There was something enfolded around his shoulders and torso, arms that kept him safe, kept him from exploding into a million, untraceable pieces. His head was tucked under somebody's chin, his hot tears running in rivulets down his face onto the black fabric of a shirt. Someone was stroking his head, whispering words he couldn't understand.

He never did cry with any sound, not even when his ribs were broken after he fell - no, was _pushed_ - down those stairs in his old childhood house.

His eyelids fluttered shut over wet blue eyes.

In the embrace of one of his best friends, Danny Messer, a man called Don Flack, Jr. cried soundlessly for a future that he would never live.

And a love he would never know.


	9. Chapter 9

**Atop the Broken Universal Clock**

Fandom: CSI:NY

Author: Kimmychu

Rating: FRM (but it'll probably go up later)

Pairing: Danny/Flack (slash yet to be determined)

Content Warning: Violence, language, disturbing imagery, angst

Spoilers: Set after 'Heroes', so spoilers for any episode previous to that

Summary: In the aftermath of his brother's near-fatal beating, Danny must deal with the consequences of his past ... and finds himself losing the battle little by little. Will Flack be strong enough to be Danny's anchor in his darkest days?

Disclaimer: Nope, characters still don't belong to me. But, man, I sure wanna give Danny a big hug after what happened in RSRD.

OoooooooooooooooooooooooooO

Author's Notes: Okay. Things start to pick up now … the main villain of the story is going to make his first major appearance in the next chapter. Lotsa important conversation in this one. Fans of evil!Sonny should enjoy the last part. There's this **CSI Fanfic Awards **going on at **Livejournal**, so if you know where it is, be sure to check out 'cos there's TON of stories listed. And I'm vewy happy someone has nominated **One Week**, **Sweet Talk and Apple Pie **… and _this_ story! Woo! Only problem is, it's still currently a WIP, so One Week has been slotted into that category instead. There might be tons of updates to this story, 'cos I hope to finish it before September 3rd, when the nominating ends. Crazy, aren't I?

OoooooooooooooooooooooooooO

** Chapter 9**

"You will find some of the names on the list recognizable, Detective Taylor," Agent Ransome, a pale-skinned, silver-eyed man, said.

Mac skimmed over the white piece of paper in his hand, reading the first few names. His brows lowered in a frown.

"Yes … Some of these names belonged to victims in recent cases my lab investigated." He tapped a finger next to one particular name. "Sandra Carpenter, for one."

"It was your investigation into her case that led us to you." Agent Ransome sat back in his seat, then glanced at the other federal agent beside him, an Agent Demille. "As well as that of the Brandon Hall case, and the Lucy Dahl case."

Hearing those two names intensified Mac's scowl. It had been several months since he and his team processed those two child murder cases. The graphic, alarming nightmares had yet to cease for him.

There was the possibility they never would.

Not as long as the Body Hacker was still loose in the city.

"They're not on this list." Mac continued to scan down the page, his lips a thin line of premonition.

"No," Agent Demille replied, her large, brown eyes impartial and luminous in the afternoon sunlight that streamed through Mac's office windows. "But those cases have very similar MO with the Carpenter case. Extreme evisceration, rearrangement of the facial features into a smile, major organs missing or partially eaten."

Mac released a quiet sound of consensus.

"This list … it was faxed to you over _six months _ago?"

"Yes, to our headquarters in Langley, anonymously," Agent Ransome said. "We were unable to track the source." The slim man shifted minutely in his seat. "We discovered it was a _hit _list after cross-checking with homicide cases in the past year and coming up with matches to murders all over the country."

"Clara Atwood, waitress. Murdered in her apartment in Baltimore, Maryland. Her liver was partially eaten, and her hair was shaved off. Antony Cavelli, owner of a club in Los Angeles. Found dead in his mansion with his genitals and _face_ missing." Agent Ransome nodded in the direction of the paper in Mac's grasp. "Edmund Pierce, lawyer with a firm in New York city. Found hanging from the bathroom rail in a room in Washington Court Hotel in Washington DC. His wife lodged a report with the police after receiving an anonymous package containing her husband's entrails, heart and liver."

Mac sighed and pinched the flesh between his eyes. A terrible migraine was beginning to pound its way through his skull.

A visit from FBI agents had been one of those matters Mac expected to occur sooner or later in correlation to the Body Hacker murders, but subconsciously dreaded. The last time he was obligated to co-operate with the Feds was for a major homicide case involving a high profile, national politician and his family. And it went badly. Bad in the kind of way that the most arrogant asshole of an agent had to be sent for that case. And bad in the sort of way that the FBI agent ended up in a near fistfight with Flack and Stella, of all people. Perhaps he _should_ have let them punch the guy's lights out.

The ex-Marine furtively studied the two agents who sat before him now, via half-lidded eyes. Agent Ransome appeared to be the typical Fed, immaculately dressed in a dark grey suit with a pin-striped tie, with neatly cropped hair, clean shaven. Agent Demille was also garbed in the standard suit jacket, dress shirt and skirt, her black hair tied up into a neat bun behind her head. Her dark skin contrasted starkly with the pristine white of her dress shirt.

Mac cast an intense, questioning gaze on the two agents.

"How many on the list are already dead?"

There was some silence before Agent Demille spoke up.

"Eighteen."

The CSI glanced sharply at her.

"Eighteen out of twenty." Agent Demille sat straighter in her seat, returning Mac's gaze with similar concentration. "By the time we determined it was a hit list, fifteen were already dead. So far, even with ongoing investigations for all homicide cases matched to the list, we've been unable to find a common denominator to connect them. Apart from the fact they were killed by the same person."

"Which was why we couldn't find the fifteenth and sixteenth victims after Sandra Carpenter until it was too late," Agent Ransome added in a low tone.

"You found the eighteenth," Mac swiftly construed.

The two FBI agents glanced at each other, Demille with an uneasy expression.

"Yes. Actually, _he_ found _us_. Quentin Ryman. He was the owner of a chain of bars in San Francisco. Moved there from New York city a few years ago," Agent Ransome said. His silver eyes were nearly transparent in the sunlight. "He contacted us, convinced he was a possible target of the Body Hacker since he recognized some of the names of the serial killer's victims. And he personally knew Antony Cavelli _and_ Edmund Pierce. The moment we verified that his name really was on the list, we posted four agents to guard him in an undisclosed safe house in San Francisco."

Agent Ransome paused.

"By the next morning, we discovered Ryman in the bedroom, with his body slashed open from neck to groin." For the first time, Mac saw palpable emotion in the agent's light eyes. "Our four agents … were found inside the dishwasher, washing machine and refrigerator."

Being the former Marine that he was, even Mac had to grit his teeth at the horrendous imagery that came to mind.

"Ryman never talked. All he would tell us was that he believed the Body Hacker was going to go after him. That someone wanted him dead," Agent Demille said. "It was his testimony that brought up the likelihood the serial killer was working as a _hired assassin _… killing on the side between targets."

Mac placed the paper with its list of names flat on his desk before him. He was troubled by the edginess he saw in the eyes of the FBI agents.

"Ryman also had links to the mafia. Cavelli too."

Agent Ransome's statement made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

The _mafia?_

Mac scrutinized them with narrowed hazel eyes.

There was more to things here than he could see at the moment. He could sense it in the air.

"You already _have_ access to our evidence, interviews and data logs for all the Body Hacker cases we investigated." Mac's gaze shifted from Agent Ransome, then to Agent Demille. "You're here for _another_ reason." He made a gesture over the list. "Unless _this_ is all you want to show me."

Agent Demille sent him a meaningful look. "The last name on the list, Detective Taylor."

Mac stared at her for a second or two, then looked down.

His gaze fell on the very last name on the paper.

And his heart stopped.

The CSI couldn't tear his eyes away from those two words that formed an extremely familiar name.

"You have a _Daniel Messer _in your staff, is that correct?"

It took Mac a long while to answer the silver-eyed agent.

"Yes ... _Yes_, Danny Messer is one of my CSIs."

Agent Demille was pulling out what appeared to be a printed picture from a large, brown paper envelope.

"We'd like to confirm something with you. Is he one of the men featured in this photo?"

Mac gingerly accepted the photograph from her, and examined it in detail. It was a color image of Danny and Flack standing side by side in a bustling crowd, outside somewhere with lots of trees and foliage in the background. Mac stared at Danny's gaunt visage, at how the younger CSI was hugging himself with his arms, as if he was cold even on a hot summer's day.

_Wait_. He knew where this was shot.

"He's the one wearing the spectacles. The man beside him is Detective Flack, NYPD Homicide. This picture seems to have been taken when we were at Central Park … processing the Brandon Hall scene." Mac placed the photograph on top of the paper with the list on it. "That was _months_ ago. When did you get this?"

"The day before. Like the fax, it was mailed to us anonymously. No return address, no fingerprints, nothing," Agent Ransome said. "Turn it over."

Mac did so.

On the white back of the picture, someone had written a single sentence in black ink and roundish, clear print.

_I save the best for last._

Those six words caused his chest to be filled with freezing ice that robbed him of his breath.

"We believe Detective Messer is the final target on the Body Hacker's hit list," Agent Ransome continued, his face professionally blank. "Do you know any reason at all why someone would want him killed?"

The sudden memory of watching an enraged animal of a gangster, handcuffed and being hauled away to a lifetime of incarceration, came to the forefront in his mind.

"_Ya think this is the end fer me, huh, Taylor! Ya think this is IT! HUH! Fuck you, ya rat bastard cop! I'll be out in no time! You'll see! … I'll be out, and I'll have my revenge on everyone who fucked me over! EVERYONE!"_

"Detective Taylor?"

Mac's hands clenched into fists on the table top.

"Detective Messer's older brother, Louie … was once part of a gang called the Tanglewood Boys, along with Salvador Zabo and Sonny Sassone, who was the leader. Earlier this year, Zabo committed suicide, and recorded a confession about a murder that happened at the Giants stadium in East Rutherford, New Jersey. During our investigations, we found a cigarette butt that contained Detective Messer's DNA, and he became the main suspect. Without further evidence, he would have been charged with the murder … so his brother wore a wire, and succeeded in taping Sonny Sassone admitting to the crime."

The CSI took a deep breath.

"Louie Messer was severely beaten up afterwards, and is now in a deep coma, being cared for at Mount Sinai hospital. As for Sonny Sassone … he was tried and found guilty. He's in Sing Sing, serving a life sentence for first degree murder."

Mac's facial features contorted into an angry frown. "If there was _anyone_ who would want Danny dead, it would be Sassone." He looked at both FBI agents, his hazel eyes blazing. "He might just be the connection you've been searching for."

Agent Ransome's face was as emotionless as ever, but Mac perceived a brightness in Agent Demille's brown eyes that wasn't there before.

Mac picked up his cel phone from where he'd left it on the right side of his desk, on some thick case files nearby. "I need to inform Detective Messer about this -"

"_No_. We can't allow that."

The CSI went still in his seat, his eyes wide. "_What?_"

"Detective Taylor," Agent Ransome carried on, now sitting ramrod straight in his chair. "It's important to us that Detective Messer _not_ know about the situation at this time. We would definitely prefer it if you didn't -"

"And I would _definitely _prefer it if I _did_," Mac snapped back in a sharp tone.

"Detective Taylor, we understand your urgency," Agent Demille said placatingly. "But it is _very_ vital that he does not know about this. _Yet_. Hear us out, _please_."

Mac kept his cel phone flipped open, staring at the female agent with a livid gaze.

"We have had Detective Messer under our surveillance ever since we received the photograph, and we will continue to do so until the Body Hacker is apprehended. We _need_ him to be unaware that he is one of the serial killer's targets, because his behavior will surely change should he learn about it."

Slowly, Mac sat back in his seat, retaining his deep scowl. He gazed downwards at the photograph on his desk.

"Because the Body Hacker is watching him."

"_Exactly_," Agent Demille said. "The serial killer has already disappeared once, and we can't afford to lose him again. As proven by his previous murders … he has no second thoughts about killing _anyone_ else who isn't on that list." She sighed, her eyes pained. "Brandon Hall and Lucy Dahl were not the only child victims."

Mac ground his teeth together.

"There are, at the last count, at least thirteen others with the same MO. In three other states in the country."

The migraine in his head was transforming into a hundred-ton steel pounder that was crushing his brain bit by bit. Mac reflexively pinched his forehead.

"You can understand why we need to capture this murderer immediately." Agent Demille gesticulated with her hands. "Even if he succeeds in killing everyone on the list, he _won't _stop. He'll continue to kill. Until someone _stops_ him."

Mac scrunched his eyes shut for a moment, then opened them again. "What you're asking me to do, is to let you use my employee, my _friend_ …" Mac's hazel eyes were full with anger once more. "As _bait_. For one of the most _vicious_ serial killers in the United States."

The FBI agents glanced at each other, their expressions tinted with tension.

"Yes," Agent Ransome replied coolly.

The silence in Mac's office was heavy and stifling.

Mac rolled his cel phone round and round in his hand.

"Four of your agents were assigned to protect one of the targets." He stared pointedly at the Feds opposite him. "And they _all _died."

For the first time since the Feds entered his office, Agent Ransome was visibly incensed.

"We can't promise that Detective Messer's safety is _completely_ guaranteed twenty-four hours a day under our protection. We're as human as _you_ are." Silver eyes gleamed dangerously. "Or would you rather he had no protection at all?"

Mac virtually felt the pressure rise in his blood.

There was a resolute knock on his office glass door.

Mac eventually broke eye contact with Agent Ransome, shifting his gaze to his office entrance.

It was Flack, standing behind the closed door, attired in his usual mixed combo of a pin-striped suit, a baroque tie and checkered dress shirt. And he was already giving the two FBI agents in his office suspicious looks. Mac waved him in.

"Mac, I got yer message … what's goin' on?" Flack kept taking quick looks at the agents as he stood in the doorway, one hand on the door handle.

"Thanks for coming on such short notice. Come in, and close the door."

The homicide detective stared at him for a minute or two, his handsome face deceptively vacant. Flack had been around the labs long enough to know Mac never closed his office door whenever he was in there. Not unless he wanted some privacy.

Or something big was going down.

Flack unhurriedly shut the door, and went to stand with his hands crossed in front of him next to Mac's desk. Now the lanky detective was blatantly eyeing the federal agents, not bothering to conceal his disdain. It was obvious Flack hadn't forgotten his last brush with the FBI.

"Flack, Agent Demille and Agent Ransome," Mac introduced briskly, nodding to each agent respectively. Then he gestured towards the homicide detective. "Detective Flack."

He gazed up at the lanky detective.

"They're here about the Body Hacker."

The mere mention of the serial killer's moniker caused Flack to noticeably stiffen up and tighten his hands into fists. "What 'bout the Body Hacker? Hasn't been a homicide case with his MO for months."

Mac ascertained that he looked the tall homicide detective in the eye while he told Flack the sinister news he had only learned minutes ago himself. It was one of the most difficult things he ever had to do, to keep his mien and voice neutral as he watched the blood drain from Flack's face, as Flack rested one hand on the table to support himself.

The FBI agents were exceedingly quiet.

"The Body Hacker … is after _Danny?_" Flack rasped. His blue eyes were wide in shock, to the point Mac could clearly see the whites around the irises. "And that sonofa_bitch_ _Sassone_ is the fucker _behind_ it?"

"That's purely speculation right now, Don," Mac said calmly, maintaining his gaze on Flack, who had begun to pace to and fro in a very agitated way. "It's the most logical avenue to purs-"

"Danny's _name_ is on that _fuckin' list_." Flack wasn't angry. He was _furious_. "And _eighteen_ of the people on that list are _dead_. Sassone has the _best_ motive for wantin' Danny _dead_, Mac." Flack stomped back to Mac's table, pointing irately with one forefinger at photograph and list on the desk top. "And this photo here? I bet ya a million bucks it was that fuckin' green-eyed _creep_ who took it."

Flack shoved himself away from the table and resumed pacing, rubbing at his mouth and chin with his hand, the other a fist on his hip.

"I think you should tell them about him," Mac advised.

Agent Ransome had one fine eyebrow raised. "The green-eyed creep?"

Flack slowed to a standstill back beside Mac's table, perceptibly calming himself down. He took a deep breath, letting it out in an audible sigh.

Mac patiently waited for the younger detective to speak. He knew that Flack was not used to being the one on the other side of the table, to being the one made to answer the questions.

"There was an unidentified man who was present at both the Brandon Hall crime scene and the Sandra Carpenter crime scene. While they were still being processed by the CSIs."

That got both Agent Ransome and Agent Demille to sit up in attention.

"First time I bumped into him, I didn't think much 'bout who he was." The homicide detective stared at the full-color picture. "Not until he insinuated that he had photographs of me. Who woulda thought he really _meant_ it."

"The second time 'round, I caught him outside Sandra Carpenter's apartment buildin'. Chased him down into an alley." Flack paused. "He … disarmed me … and while I was down, he heavily implied that somebody was threatening Danny's life. He didn't specifically mention Danny's name." He shook his head from side to side, biting his lower lip, lost in thought. "But I know. I _know_ what he was sayin'. I _know_ he's the guy."

Whatever exasperation Agent Ransome developed before Flack arrived had vanished in light of the homicide detective's account. "Will you be able to identify the man should you meet him again?"

"Yeah," Flack answered. "_Yeah_, I would. Definitely. Even got a facial composite done of the guy, by one of the lab technicians here."

Agent Demille turned her head to look at Mac. "We'd like a copy of it. This man could very well be the serial killer."

"Or some random, mentally unstable man who _thinks_ he's one."

Mac was starting to form the opinion Agent Ransome was not a very optimistic man.

"It's the best lead we've got so far," Agent Demille said in a hushed tone.

"He hasn't popped up in a couple of months."

Mac and the FBI agents retrained their gazes on Flack.

"Not since the Lucy Dahl case," Flack concluded. He then glanced at Agent Demille, who was closest to him.

"Eighteen on the list are dead. That leaves two. Ya know Danny's one of them. What 'bout the other person?"

"He's already under our custody."

"Doesn't mean he's outta harm. Yer people couldn't stop the Body Hacker last time he struck when ya had somebody under yer protection." Flack's blue eyes were hard and cold. "How can we be sure Danny will be safe at _all _with ya, if that's the case?"

Agent Ransome was displaying signs of stress. "As I've told Detective Taylor, we can't guarantee a _hundred_ percent that no harm at all will come to your co-worker. But what happened was a _one-time _occurrence." The agent's eyes were equally hard and icy. "_It won't happen again_."

"And you're so sure a' that, _huh?_"

Mac stared at the glowering silver-eyed man, then at Flack, gently drumming his fingers on the armrests of his chair. He sighed inaudibly.

The homicide detective hadn't been told yet about the FBI's plans for Danny.

Before this meeting was over, someone in the room was going to get hurt.

"Well, you're gonna get him to one of yer safe houses at least, _right?_"

"No." Agent Ransome's voice had gone an octave lower.

The CSI never realized how wide Flack's eyes could go. "_What? _What the _hell_ do ya mean by that!"

"It is imperative that Detective Messer not know about th-"

Flack caught on really fast.

"You're gonna use him as _bait_. You're gonna use him as _fuckin' BAIT_." The homicide detective's features were in a rictus of sheer wrath. "_Are ya kiddin' me!_"

Agent Demille certainly didn't look like she expected such fury from Flack. The younger man _was_ quite frightening when he was outraged. "Detective Flack, we will do the very _best_ we can to protect him at all times -"

"_Danny deserves to know that some PSYCHO FUCKER out there wants to KILL HIM!_"

Flack's deafening roar cowed both agents into an uncomfortable silence.

When neither Fed was going to reply, Flack looked to Mac for a response, guidance, anything.

"Mac, ya aren't gonna go with this _bullshit _plan a' theirs, _are_ ya?"

The older detective was deeply grateful his migraine was fading away. He rubbed absent-mindedly at his temple. " … I don't know."

"Mac, _c'mon! _They want us to keep this _hidden_ from Danny!" Flack stared imploringly at him, his expression an amalgam of ire, frustration and trepidation. "I know the top priority is to get the Body Hacker, but ya gotta think 'bout Danny too!"

The CSI picked up the photograph from his desk, studying it for the second time that afternoon. Sometimes, he still felt bewildered at how long it'd taken him to see the severity of Danny's eating disorder. Sometimes, people were blind to so many things till they were shown reality from a different perspective. Right now, Flack was thinking with his heart, rather than his head. The younger man was seeing the situation through the eyes of someone who was emotionally linked to the target. And everyone knew how close the two detectives were.

Like brothers.

"I _am_ thinking about him, Don."

Flack tensed up, mouth opened, ready with a comeback, but then he quietened. The tall, blue-eyed man stared at Mac with a reflective look, and nodded faintly.

Good man, Mac thought. Flack understood. The Feds didn't need to know about Danny's other problems. That was something that stayed solely in the team.

"Which is why you're here," Mac adjoined.

Flack perked up from his hunched, head-bowed pose, gazing questioningly at the CSI.

"You're one of his closest friends, someone who knows him well. Someone he _trusts_. And _I_ trust you." Mac sat up in his seat. "The FBI already has Danny under surveillance, but you'll be the perfect additional protection he needs. You'll be able to follow Danny around without arousing any suspicion, even to his apartment. And I can assign him to lab work only, if it means keeping him here under constant security."

Flack eventually nodded. "Yeah." Then he glowered at the FBI agents. "I'm more than willin' to stay with him twenty-four seven, but there is _no_ way in fuck all I'm gonna keep quiet 'bout this. Danny deserves to know the _truth_."

Agent Ransome sighed heavily. "Can you ensure he won't up and run on you if you tell him?"

"_Gee_, I dunno, if ya found out some _serial killer wacko _out there who _hacks_ people up and _eats_ their _insides_ was after _you_, would ya feel like stickin' 'round much, _huh?_" Flack threw up his arms in displeasure. "What's _wrong_ with you? You _Feds_ … thinkin' ya could just _come_ in here and _tell _us what to do, _hahn?_ This is somebody we _care_ 'bout that ya want us to put on the line here! Do ya even _know_ what that _feels_ like!"

Mac remained silent. Flack had pretty much verbalized his thoughts on the matter, albeit in a fashion that was more coarse than Mac would have liked.

Again, it was Agent Ransome who spoke up.

"Detective Flack. Two of the agents watching Quentin Ryman who were killed by the Body Hacker … were my friends."

Agent Demille's was staring at a spot on Mac's desk, expressionless.

Flack looked like he just slammed headlong into a brick wall.

Mac glanced sharply at Agent Ransome, stoic on the outside but inwardly empathizing with the man. He had lost friends of his own to war and bloodshed during his Marine years.

"One of them was a good man I'd known for more than fifteen years. I had to identify his mangled _body parts _for burial because his wife couldn't bear to see what remained of her husband." The man's silver eyes were old and dejected. "Yes, I _do _know what it feels like, to have friends on the line … and to lose them."

The hush that reigned was a different kind now.

"You must believe me, detectives, that we would _never_ have brought up such a plan unless it was a _final resort_," Agent Ransome said after some time. "If you have _any_ better ideas at all, we'd be happy to hear you out and compromise a new plan."

Mac glanced at Flack from the corner of his eyes. The homicide detective's large eyes were shuttered, his lips downturned. The agents weren't going to receive an answer from him anytime soon.

"We'll go along with it. _For now_," Mac responded, looking at Agent Ransome in a somewhat altered light from before. "But Detective Messer _will_ be informed of all this."

"Very well." Agent Ransome appeared very tired in the wake of his surprising disclosure.

The sudden shrill ring tone of a mobile phone echoed loudly in the glass office.

It was Agent Demille's phone, which was in her jacket pocket.

She answered it with her last name, and after a minute or so, she removed it from her ear and replaced it in her jacket pocket.

"He wants to meet us now. He's not happy with the current arrangements."

Whatever it meant, it was apparently something crucial to Agent Ransome as well. The agent got up to his feet, facing Mac, who had also stood up.

"My apologies for cutting our meeting short, but we have to leave. We'll contact you again very soon to smooth out all the details." Agent Ransome looked at Flack. "If you still plan on telling Detective Messer … please let us know when you do. He may wish to speak with us."

Mac placed a hand on top of the picture and list on his desk. "I'd like to keep these for additional processing in my labs. Particularly the photo."

"Certainly," Agent Ransome said. He plucked out two cards from his jacket pocket. "My contact, as well as Agent Demille's."

"Thank you." The CSI took them from the agent, gazing at the numbers and instantly memorizing them.

The two FBI agents were already almost out of Mac's office when Flack suddenly called out to Agent Ransome. The silver-eyed man halted at the doorway, pivoting around.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

Agent Ransome gazed intently at Flack for a moment, then merely nodded, a small, melancholic smile on his lips as he left with his partner.

Once they were on their own, Mac sat back onto his office chair, running one hand down his face. His hands and feet felt prickly, as if countless needles were jabbing him. It was easy to ignore the gory images flashing in his mind with the Feds preoccupying him. But now, he couldn't stop seeing visions of Danny, sprawled on a leaf-covered ground, his pale corpse slashed open from neck to groin.

Those blue eyes staring at him.

Demanding to know why he failed to protect his protégé.

"I don't like this, Mac." Flack was sitting in the chair Agent Demille sat previously, his handsome visage set in a grim expression. "I don't like it all."

"You're not the only one, believe me."

"I wanna be the one to tell him."

Mac wholly anticipated Flack's request.

"Okay. But you _have_ to let me know the moment you do."

Flack nodded.

Mac leaned back on his leather chair, pinching the flesh between his left thumb and forefinger. It helped to alleviate headaches whenever he applied direct pressure to the bundle of nerves there. Damn migraine. He probably had more of them in the last six months than in his entire life.

Flack was lost in contemplation, his thick eyebrows low in one of his broods.

"Flack. What do you think about Danny hightailing out of town when you tell him about all this?"

The homicide detective was taken aback by the question.

"Hell, _no_. Danny isn't like that." Flack sat back on his seat, thinking it out, his gaze darting here and there. "He isn't gonna just up and _run_ … he's not a _coward_."

For some reason, Mac was grudgingly reminded of a near-skeletal Danny, sitting with his shoulders hunched on his couch, months ago. Peering at him with those big, fearful eyes. Admitting to Mac he'd quit the eating disorder program.

Danny had broken his promise to Mac about that.

And at the time, the younger CSI barely had a clue how close to death he was.

If Flack informed him about being a target of the Body Hacker, about a horrible death looming over him at any given time … could Danny still be trusted to keep his word to them?

The tall detective seemed to know precisely what Mac was thinking.

"You're thinkin' 'bout Danny and that Mount Sinai program, aren't ya?"

Mac locked eyes with Flack, then nodded quietly.

"I know." Flack bowed his head, his eyes half-lidded. "_Yeah_, I _know_, he promised us he'd go with that program and then he quit … but …" He sighed. "That was _different_, Mac. He was on the brink. Thought he had _nobody_, ya know?" Flack lifted his head.

"It's different now. Now he knows he's got people he can _depend_ on. People he can _trust_, that he can go to for help." The late afternoon sunlight gave Flack's pale skin a glowing vibrance. "Danny didn't quit the program 'cos he was afraid. He quit 'cos he believed the people there didn't care 'bout him, didn't give a damn 'bout _him_, ya know what I mean? He …"

Flack was at a loss for words for a second.

"He believed that _I _was the one who would be able to help him."

Mac sent him a warm, minute smile. "You did."

The words made Flack smile bashfully. "My friend was in trouble, and he needed my help. That's all I needed to know."

Mac's closed-lipped smile broadened. In only two sentences, Flack had unwittingly proven himself to Mac that it'd been an excellent idea to call the homicide detective to attend the small meeting in his office earlier on.

"Shit."

Mac raised his eyebrows at Flack's rather non-sequitur comment.

"_Shit_." Flack scratched at the side of his head. "How do ya tell yer friend a psychotic _serial killer _has got him on his _hit list _and wants him _dead?_"

Mac picked up his mobile phone from where he placed it on his desk, ready to dial a number he'd assumed he wouldn't have to for a long, long time.

"The same answer to the following question ... How do you make an imprisoned gangster admit he's hired a psychotic serial killer who's murdering people off his hit list?"

Mac began pressing the first few buttons, then smirked mirthlessly.

"You just do it."

OooooooooooooooooooooooooooO

Sonny Sassone had changed a great deal since Mac last met him in person.

"Well, well … if it isn't _Deeee-tec-teeeve Taaaylor_."

There was nothing of the flabby, cocky gangster he'd confronted at that construction site, when he arrested Sassone for the murder that imprisoned the man in Sing Sing. For one thing, Sassone's skin was littered with scars, fresh and old. One crawled up the right side of his face like protruding, fleshy veins, from his lower jaw below his right ear up to the corner of his right eye. Another long one ran along his left forearm, as if he'd used it to block a knife attack. Mac was certain there were more beneath the man's prison garb.

Sassone's hair was gone. As well as any fatness he had before his incarceration. The gangster turned prisoner was all brawn and brute strength now. It showed in the bulging muscles of his arms and chest, and in the leanness of his face. However, it was the man's eyes that warned Mac he was dealing with someone much more vicious now.

They were chock-full of arrogance, rage and hatred.

And, oddly enough … satisfaction.

Truth be told, Mac wasn't even sure anymore if there was anything remotely _human_ in the person sitting before him anymore.

The CSI stared at the man whom he'd apprehended, cautious but unafraid.

Sonny was chained at the wrists and ankles to steel hoops embedded in the floor, efficiently hindering the prisoner from doing any harm to his visitor.

"_So_ nice to see ya again, Taylor," Sassone said in a sarcastic tone, lounging in his seat with his fingers pressed together in a steeple. "To what do I owe the _pleasure_ of your _illustrious_ presence?"

Mac kept quiet, continuing to stare at Sonny with hazel eyes of steel.

"Wha, ya here 'cos ya _missed_ my gorgeous face, _Taylor?_" Sassone sniggered. "Ya know, if ya wanted to be the president of my _fan club_, all ya had to do was ask." He narrowed his eyes pointedly. "I'll even let ya _suck_ my _dick_ in the mornin' and evenin'."

Mac didn't show the tiniest bit of a reaction.

However, it simply amused the former gangster.

"_Oooohhh_, ya _like_ that, huh?" Sassone waved his hands in the air. "Wanna play it _cooool_, _hah?_" He snickered once more,. Then his expression fell solemn.

"Ya know somethin', Taylor. I oughta _thank_ ya for puttin' me into Sing Sing." Sonny began drumming his fingers intermittently on the table between them. "Betcha didn't expect _that_, ah? But it's true … I'm _glad_ I ended up here."

The convict truly did appear to be grateful, which made Mac's hackles rise.

"'Fore I got here, I was a total fatass. A _lazy_ fatass. I _admit_ it, it's true. I was gettin' weak. Gettin' _soft_." Sassone flexed his arm and flaunted the swell of his muscular, right upper arm. "But now … I'm _back_, I'm back to the guy I once was … the tough, muthafucker bastard _everybody's_ afraid of. And it's _all_ thanks to _you_, Taylor."

Sassone leaned forward as far as he could across the table, staring Mac in the eye. "Ya sent me here to _hell_, thinkin' I'd be _tormented_ by the _demons_ here … didn't ya?" He flashed an malevolent grin. "Betcha never thought I'd end up the _king of hell _… did ya?"

Sonny sat back, laughing to himself. "I _like_ bein' the king of hell."

At long last, Mac allowed himself to respond.

"I know what you're up to."

Sassone clutched at his heart in a mock action of shock. "Oh, Detective _Taaaaaylor! _I'm here in _Sing Sing _…" - he held up his hands and shook them, jangling the chains connected to the steel cuffs around his wrists - "And there ya are, accusin' me a' doin' more _bad _things, while I'm _chained _up here and I can't even _piss_ without guards watchin' me day and night!"

He turned his head in the direction of the closed door of the private visitor's room. "_Hey! _I _know_ you're standin' out there listenin' to us _talk! _Are ya _listenin'_ to what this _cop_ is sayin'? _Hah? _Is this guy _crazy_ or what?"

Sassone fell backwards on his chair, cackling like a madman.

Mac was pretty sure at this point the guy _had_ gone insane.

"You're _funny_, Taylor. Ya oughta go try out and be one a' them stand-up _comedians_ or somethin'."

"I know you're the one who set him loose."

Sonny made a face, and shrugged his shoulders in a dramatic manner. "I have no idea what you're talkin' 'bout. Wha, am I sucha damn _awesome_ bad guy that ya gotta blame me fer _every_ crime that happens in the world or what?"

"The Body Hacker." Mac narrowed his eyes in a ferocious glare. "I _know_ you hired him to do your _dirty work_, Sassone."

Sassone stared blankly at the CSI, then burst out laughing. "Oh _man_, you've got one _hell_ of an imagination, ya _know_ that? Think I told ya that a couple a' times already." He poked at his own chest with a forefinger. "_Me? _Hire the _Body Hacker? _Ya mean that crazy _wacko_ who goes 'round _hackin'_ people up and _eatin'_ their _liver_ and _hearts_ and all that _crap? _Ya gotta be _kiddin'_ me."

"The FBI has a copy of your hit list."

Oh, that got Sassone's condescending grin to waver a little.

Mac inclined forward, with it being his turn to steeple his fingers instead. "They know you're connected to the Body Hacker. And it's only going to be a matter of time before they figure out who he is, and catch him."

Sassone stared at Mac with wide, calculating eyes.

And gradually, the ex-gangster started to smile.

"Ya know what I'm thinkin', Taylor?" Sonny leaned forward again, smirking. "I'm thinkin' … you've got _nothin'_ on me at all. Just _specu-laaaaaaa-tiooooooon._ And you're hopin', _hey_, maybe you'll come visit yer old pal _Sonny_ in Sing Sing … and maybe, _maybe_ he'll be _stupid_ 'nough to be my _scapegoat_ for a fuckin' serial killer _you can't catch_."

Mac's hand involuntarily curled into a taut fist.

"See? Between you and me? _I'm_ the one who's got _nothin'_ to lose. And ya got nothin' on me. _Nothin'_." Sassone was snickering. "My old man, right now, is already gettin' our lawyers to bust me outta here. I got out before, Taylor. And I can do it again." He made a derisive noise with his tongue. "Ya can buy _anybody_ off with enough dough these days."

"You may get out … but I'll put you right back in." The CSI sustained his apathetic mien. "You're here in Sing Sing, just as I promised. Aren't you?"

The convict finally lost his composure.

"_Fuck you, ya lousy SONOFABITCH COP!_"

Mac swiftly leapt back, avoiding the table that toppled over onto the floor with the brutality of Sassone hurtling himself at him. The chains holding Sassone at bay made piercing, metallic sounds as the former gangster attempted his hardest to break the shackles binding his wrists and ankles.

"_I'LL KILL YOU, YA RAT BASTARD!_"

One of the steel hoops in the floor began to loosen.

The room door was flung open, revealing three wardens, armed with black batons.

Sassone became even more frenzied upon seeing the guards, screaming incoherently, aiming his insurmountable wrath at them. He was still howling and thrashing about while two of the wardens rushed forward and promptly hammered at him with their truncheons, slamming him to the cold floor.

"Detective, you alright?"

Mac could merely nod, watching the violence die down with wide, hazel eyes. Sonny lay motionless on his side on the hard floor, his frightening roaring and struggling ended at long last. A red trail of blood trickled from the man's left temple, into his left eye and down his cheek. It made Sassone appear like he was weeping blood.

"Taylor."

One of the wardens surrounding the fallen convict fingered his baton, but Sassone ignored him, ignored everyone except Mac. Sonny spat out some blood on the floor in front of him.

"How's Danny Messer doin', ah?"

Sassone raised his head when Mac didn't reply.

"You and Danny … gotta be good pals." He smirked, displaying teeth splattered with red. "Hah, am I _right? _Chasin' me like ya did just so he'd get outta trouble for that stupid kid's death."

Sassone slowly sat up, staring into Mac's eyes, into his soul.

"If I were you … I'd spend time with the people I _care_ 'bout. Maybe go for a _baseball_ game, ah? Take him to the stadium to watch the dream he'll never live."

The bleeding man cackled maniacally.

"_Boy_. It felt _good_ to snap his wrist … ya know that?"

Both of Mac's hands clenched hard. For an instant, all he saw was red, a red glaze over the horrific scene of a younger Sassone breaking an even younger Danny's wrist, laughing his head off while Danny screamed in pain.

"Snap … crackle … _pop_."

Mac could see the growing insanity, the darkness in Sassone's black eyes.

"Sometimes … sometimes, you'll never know … when ya _lose _somebody ya love, Taylor."

Sassone grinned like a devil.

And his malicious, echoing laughter followed Mac in his mind all the way back to the hustle and bustle of New York city.


	10. Chapter 10

**Atop the Broken Universal Clock**

Fandom: CSI:NY

Author: Kimmychu

Rating: FRAO

Pairing: Danny/Flack (friendship)

Content Warning: Violence, language, disturbing imagery, angst

Spoilers: Set after 'Heroes', so spoilers for any episode previous to that

Summary: In the aftermath of his brother's near-fatal beating, Danny must deal with the consequences of his past ... and finds himself losing the battle little by little. Will Flack be strong enough to be Danny's anchor in his darkest days?

Disclaimer: Nope, characters still don't belong to me. But, man, I sure wanna give Danny a big hug after what happened in RSRD.

OoooooooooooooooooooooooooO

Author's Notes: Oh my, oh my, many apologies for the slow updates to this story. Some fandom drama happened a while back that distracted me, as well as updating my other stories, heheh. I've just signed up for NaNoWriMo, which means … I'm gonna try and finish this story, as well as all the other WIPs I've got. Yikes. That'll mean you'll be seeing more updates for this story in the next two weeks. This chapter's … quite dark. If you're a very visual person, well, I hope this doesn't give you nightmares. Thanks for the reviews, everyone! I appreciate them loads.

OoooooooooooooooooooooooooO

** Chapter 10**

The man's big knife produced a loud, scraping noise on the bottom edge of mommy's mug.

"Please, _please_, I beg you … let my family _go_. _Please_ …"

Jamie sat on one of the chairs in the living room, watching the sharp blade seesaw back and forth, the dark-colored metal glinting under the ceiling light of the living room. It was shiny, and the colors seemed to change whenever the man moved the knife. Jamie wanted to touch it, but he knew he couldn't. Mommy said it was bad to play with knifes. They could hurt people.

"Oh my God … _oh my God _…"

Mommy was crying. It made Jamie want to cry too.

"_Please_, let my wife and son _go _… They haven't _done _anything! They don't _know_ anything! They're _innocent!_"

Daddy looked like he was crying too. He'd never seen daddy cry before.

"It's _me_ Sonny wants! _ME!_"

The man said nothing.

"Look … look, I have lots of _money_, okay?" Daddy was crawling on his knees on the carpet towards the man, his arms tied behind his back with ropes. Daddy looked really strange with his face scrunched up like that. "I-I'll give it _all_ to you, _all of it_. _Please_, just let my family _go_."

The knife grated against the edge of the ceramic mug one last time, and then, the man gently placed the mug on the sofa next to him. He started to spin the weapon in his hand, using just his fingers on the metallic handle to turn it around and round like a top. Jamie stared at it, enthralled by the light reflecting off the blade. It was really pretty.

The red streaks and splotches all over the man's shirt were pretty too.

"Once upon a time, there was a white sorcerer who lived in Ecuador." The man had a strange voice, a smooth, low voice that compelled Jamie to lean back and do nothing but listen. "He was called Huerto, a good and compassionate healer who was revered and loved by his people."

The man, who had long, dark hair tied into a ponytail, slowly stretched out a hand to touch his daddy on the forehead. Daddy was trembling fiercely now, like he was very, very scared of the man.

"One day, while he was walking home, he came upon a lost boy, who sat by the road with nothing but the clothes he wore. He took this boy under his wing, and cared for this boy like his own son."

Jamie gaped helplessly at the man's face, his lips slightly parted. The man had really big, green eyes.

"Huerto had another son, older than this boy, and his son did not like this boy. The people did not like this boy either, telling Huerto that he was an evil spirit who had to be banished. But Huerto did not listen to the people. He chose to continue to care for the boy, teaching him the good ways of a white sorcerer, a healer. He believed that there was hope for all souls, no matter what evil deeds they had done in the past."

In an almost placid manner, the man pushed at his daddy's forehead with his fingertips. Daddy knelt down on the floor before the man, gazing at the man with wide, blank eyes, his mouth open. It was as if daddy had become a zombie.

"Many years passed. The people forgot that they thought the boy was evil, for the boy had captured the hearts of those who once hated him … all except one person. Huerto's son." The man trailed one finger down daddy's face to his chest, poking the tip into the juncture between his collarbones. "Huerto's son was jealous of the boy, because his own father loved this boy more than him. Not only that, his father was also teaching the boy black magic, magic even he was forbidden from learning."

Mommy's sobs were all that Jamie heard whenever the man paused in his storytelling.

"In the middle of one sweltering, humid night, Huerto's son crept into the boy's room to confront the boy, hoping to prove to his father of the outsider's true wickedness. They fought in the darkness, each for their own lives, until Huerto, who was awakened by the noise, came crashing into the room."

The man's finger moved downward from daddy's collarbones to the center of his chest.

"Huerto saw the knife in his son's hands, and smacked it away onto the floor. The white sorcerer rebuked him, unable to believe that his own flesh and blood was capable of such a despicable act as murder."

For the first time that night, the man showed some form of emotion on his handsome features.

There was a sudden spongy, wet sound.

Jamie felt something hot and watery splatter across his face and chest.

Daddy made a bizarre noise, like a scratchy croak.

The man's hands were wrapped around something hard sticking out of daddy's chest now.

Jamie suddenly couldn't stop shaking.

"Huerto looked just like you …" The long-haired man smiled, a scary, cold smile like a reptile's. "When I stabbed him in the heart with his own son's knife."

_Daddydaddydaddydaddydaddy -_

The fear that had been kept at bay in Jamie's child-heart came crashing over him like a towering, relentless tsunami. He screamed at the top of his voice, not knowing why he was doing it, but that something really bad had happened and he didn't know what it was.

Mommy was screaming too, falling over onto her side in her terror, unable to crawl due to the ropes around her wrists and legs. She was looking in desperation and horror at him. Tears were running down her pallid face.

"RUN, JAMIE, _RUUUUUUUUUN!_"

Jamie leapt off the chair and dashed away on his little feet, still screaming and crying. He couldn't see where he was going, only that mommy told him to run away, and he had to get away from the bad man. He slammed into something hard, like a chair. Toppled to the floor, then shot back onto his feet, not knowing where he was headed, his vision blurred by tears. All Jamie could remember was mommy and daddy and the FBI people telling him to run away and go find a safe place to hide if something really, _really_ bad happened.

His mommy was shrieking as if she was in terrible agony. It was a horrible sound that frightened Jamie even more.

He fell down another time, tripping on the small carpet at the entrance to the kitchen. His knees banged hard on the wooden floor.

The whole house abruptly became very quiet.

Mommy wasn't screaming anymore.

Jamie crawled to his hands and knees.

And felt an enormous hand on the back of his neck.

He opened his mouth wide to scream, and faltered into silence the instant he was flipped over onto his back on the floor and was gazing into the man's green eyes.

It was happening again. Just like when the bad man first appeared in front of them in the living room and started talking. Jamie couldn't move at all. Couldn't even blink.

"Huerto's son was strong. He nearly succeeded in overpowering me … except I was stronger."

Kneeling down, the man gently maneuvered Jamie into sitting with his legs straightened out in front of him, on the green, circular carpet he tripped on. Jamie wasn't sure why he was becoming less frightened. He felt weird. As if he was swimming underwater and just … floating there.

The man's shirt had even more red spatters on it now. It didn't look so pretty to Jamie anymore.

"I left their mangled bodies in the roots of the mangrove trees close to the house."

The man angled his head to one side. He scrutinized Jamie's round visage with vacant eyes.

"The alligators by the river feasted well that morning."

Jamie discovered he could still move his eyes, if not the rest of himself. He glanced down at the big knife in the man's grasp. It was covered in red too, as dark as the crimson on the man's shirt.

"Do you know how long it takes to massacre an entire village … with a single knife?"

The razor-sharp tip of the bloodied weapon came within a mere inch of Jamie's nose.

"Four days."

The man's lips curved up into another indifferent smile.

"And the fleeing children … were the best."

The long-haired man drew back the knife, high into the air, ready to swing it back down in a fatal arc. His green eyes widened perceptibly.

Jamie's face crumpled, and his tears flowed once more.

"_Mommy! DAAAAAADDY! HEEELP MEEEEEEE!_"

His scream resonated throughout the house.

A second passed. Two. Three.

Jamie locked eyes with the man, unable to tear his petrified gaze away.

The knife remained held in the air, frozen in place.

Jamie's panting began to decrease in speed. His face became slack in shock.

The man's hands were … trembling.

Jamie let out a tiny whimper. It seemed as loud as a gunshot in the eerie silence.

They continued to stare into each other's eyes, equally wide and bewildered.

The man blinked.

Something flashed through those formerly blank eyes.

And slowly, the bloody blade was lowered, until it was held at the man's side. No longer aimed in his direction, but still as deadly.

The man looked _scared_.

Jamie felt a touch on his cheek, a tender stroke that reminded him of the way daddy would pat him.

" … Abel?"

The man's voice was different. He sounded like a young boy.

"Abel … you're _bleeding_."

The bad man pulled his hand away. It was coated with the same red wetness on his knife and his shirt.

"Where - where is all this _blood_ coming from?"

There was a muffled thud as the knife dropped onto the carpet next to Jamie.

The green-eyed man stared at his hand for a moment, then at Jamie. Again, he touched Jamie's face. Jamie could sense the man's hands quavering against his cheeks.

"Abel … why … why aren't you saying anything to me?" The man cupped Jamie's face and shook him, as if the man was trying to wake him up from a deep sleep. "_Say_ something!"

After a few seconds, the man unexpectedly wrenched his hands away. He scuttled backwards, staring at Jamie with horrified, wide eyes.

"Wha … what have I _done?_" Those green eyes darted here and there, the panic-filled eyes of an animal ensnared in a fatal trap. "I didn't mean to -"

The man suddenly snapped his head to one side to stare at something invisible, something Jamie couldn't see.

"Mom … _dad_ … why … why are they so _still?_"

The frightened man began to cower where he knelt. Staring at his bloody hands once more.

"_Mom_, _dad_, I didn't mean to -"

He glanced up at the ceiling, seeing more invisible things up there that Jamie couldn't see either.

The man was crying now.

"No, _no_, the house is _burning_, _the house is burning down! I have to get you out - HAVE TO -_"

Scarlet stripes appeared as the weeping man dragged his blood-splashed fingers down his face.

His mouth fell open into a huge 'O' shape.

"_Mooom! DAAD! HEEEEEEEEEELP MEEEEEEEEEE!_"

Jamie scrunched his eyes close and clapped his hands over his ears to block out the man's horrendous scream. He still couldn't move his legs. All he could do was sit where he was, wailing in fright, twisting his head away and hearing his mother say to him over and over that there were no such things as monsters, there were no such things as monsters, _there were no such things as monsters_ -

The house was silent again.

Jamie was able to move his limbs too.

He hesitantly opened his wet eyes, keeping his hands over his ears.

Moments later, he let his ears go. Let his arms fall to his sides, his hands rest on the carpet he sat on.

He felt something wet and warm stick to his left hand. He glanced down.

There was a bloody stain on the left side of his carpet, shaped like a very big knife.

Jamie gazed uncomprehendingly at the red wetness all over his fingers, then raised his head to look around him.

It was beginning to rain.

And the bad man was gone.

OoooooooooooooooooooooooooO

"Motherfuckin' sonofa_bitch_."

Flack muttered it a second time, and neither Stella or Mac reprimanded him for it. They were too outraged at the grisly scene before them to even care about the homicide detective swearing a streak.

"It's _him_ again, isn't it?" Stella's question was a rhetorical one.

Mac said nothing. His free hand not carrying his CSI kit was clenched into a rigid, white-knuckled fist.

Hawkes' normally cheerful eyes were narrowed and shuttered.

Flack scowled fiercely, the anger within him boiling up fast. It had merely been the day before when the FBI agents came to visit Mac at the labs. So far, no one else except he and the CSI knew the purpose of their visit, or about the nineteenth victim on the hit list already under their protection. Or that Danny was also a target of the Body Hacker.

In less than forty-eight hours since that meeting, it was now a dead certainty Danny was the final one.

Flack flipped at his black notebook, using it as a means of not looking at the gruesome corpses.

"Kevin and Cassie Prym. Him, an auditor with one hella long list of big shot companies in his resume. Her, a housewife." Flack closed his notebook. "They have a four-year-old son, Jamie."

Stella's red lips pursed tight at the last statement.

The living room they were in was jarringly clean and tidy, save for the center of the room where the bodies lay. Cassie Prym was sprawled chest down on the floor, as sprawled as she could be with her wrists and ankles tied up with dark green, stiff ropes. Kevin Prym, also trussed up, was on his side, about eight feet away from his wife. Both of them stared into the far distance with lightless, dull eyes. There were copious spatters of blood surrounding their corpses, one wide arc of red stemming from Mrs. Prym's neck. The lake of blood beneath Mrs. Prym was much bigger than the one under her dead husband's, due to her throat having been slit open from ear to ear with a bladed weapon. Her head was literally hanging onto her body by a thread of flesh.

At first glance, it didn't appear to be a slaying perpetrated by the Body Hacker. The serial killer had never bound his earlier victims up, and they were always discovered with their corpses slashed from throat to groin, some organs missing or partially eaten. This time, instead of one, there were two bodies. The most apparent sign they had that it was the work of the same killer were the disturbing smiles both victims had on their ashen, frozen miens. And even those were unlike the ones on previous victims. The smiles were lop-sided, as if the murderer had roughly used his fingers in haste to make them.

Flack's scowl intensified. He was going to utterly _hate_ it when they had to look at the body of the Pryms' boy. He prayed to God it had been quick for the little kid. The tall homicide detective cursed inwardly. This was bad, _really_ bad. Here was absolute proof staring him in the face that protection from the Feds for Danny was going to amount up to nothing.

And where the fuck _were _the FBI agents who were supposed to guard the Pryms? Where were Agent Ransome and Agent Demille? They _had_ to know what'd happened to Kevin Prym and his family by now.

An icy stone settled in the pit of Flack's stomach.

"He didn't finish," Hawkes said, scrutinizing the two corpses lying on the floor.

Before anyone could ask him what he meant, the former ME knelt down next to the hacked body of Mr. Prym. He looked closer at the blood-splattered chest, then pointed at the long gash that ran from between the collarbones down to just below the sternum of the corpse.

"The unique serration of the wound is the same as those on the other victims. Same jagged edges. Our serial killer's still using the same weapon for his murders. The wound fits his MO, but unlike the other victims, this one only goes halfway down the body." Hawkes was careful to not step in the pool of blood. "Like he stopped. Or was interrupted midway."

He carefully turned the body a little more onto its back to better study the cut.

"He thrust the knife into the soft tissue between the collar bones, then pulled the blade down, cutting right through the sternum … a perfect, centered line."

Hawkes glanced up at Flack and his fellow CSIs with immense apprehension in his brown eyes.

"I have to use an_ electric saw_ just to open up the ribcage, and that's when the bodies on my table are already _dead_. To be able to open up a living man's chest like this … in a _single stroke _through the sternum with a _knife_ … The poor bastard was probably still struggling and fighting back when this happened." Hawkes trailed off into an aghast mumble. "I don't _ever_ want to meet this killer alone."

The expressions on Mac and Stella's faces mirrored the one on the former ME's.

Hawkes stood up and moved over to kneel next to Mrs. Prym's body.

"And _this_, we never saw this with any of his previous victims." Hawkes deftly shifted the head to examine the decapitating slash almost severing the neck. "One lethal and swift cut."

"Like he wanted to shut her up fast?" Flack growled.

Hawkes looked up at him, a subdued sadness replacing his trepidation. "Yes, that would be a plausible reason."

Flack gritted his teeth. He yanked out a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and pressed it against his nose, unable to withstand the stench of stale blood and rotting flesh any longer.

"You CSIs have got yer work cut out."

All four detectives pivoted their heads to see an officer garbed in the bluish-black New York police uniform standing at the entrance to the living room. It was the cop who'd been sent out after 911 dispatch received a mysterious, silent call that was quickly traced to the very house where they all were right now. He was the cop who'd contacted Homicide as well, once he came upon the remains of the Pryms. He appeared very pale and queasy.

"There're some more bodies in the kitchen … I dunno how many there are, 'cos they're -" The cop swallowed visibly. "They're kinda … stuffed into the washing machine and the dishwasher." He gulped a second time. "And I think there're some … leftover parts in the _oven_ too. I didn't open it."

Flack didn't bother to conceal the revulsion on his frowning face.

_Fuck_. So _that's_ where the Feds went. The Body Hacker was going to have the entire bureau on his ass after this spate of FBI agent murders.

He turned his head to Mac, who stood beside him, making eye contact with the man.

"You were tryin' ta call Agent Ransome or Agent Demille just now?" Flack whispered, his voice made faint by his handkerchief. He'd noticed Mac on his mobile phone earlier, when he arrived at the house with the CSIs and saw them getting out of Mac's SUV.

"Yes. But no one picked up," Mac murmured. The CSI sent Flack a meaningful glance.

The ominous feeling in Flack's gut grew heavier.

He took the handkerchief off his nose and said to the cop, "The Pryms have a four-year-old son. Did you see his body back there?"

The homicide detective felt Stella's piercing gaze on him. He didn't return her look.

The cop shook his head in a negative. "No … _no_, I didn't see any kid." He suddenly became even more wan. "Looked like adults to me. Wearin' suits and stuff, I think. I took a fast look inside the dishwasher, but I didn't dare to move anythin'."

All the hair on the back of Flack's neck stood on end.

"You're _sure_ you didn't see a kid? Have you checked the whole house?"

"Yeah, Carlos and I checked out the whole place. No kid anywhere."

Flack crammed his handkerchief back into his jacket pocket and hurriedly replaced his notebook inside his jacket.

"Don?" Stella was at his side, bearing her silver CSI case, her camera hanging from her neck. Her green eyes blazed under the early morning sunlight streaming in through high windows.

"The kid's _alive_."

Flack immediately stormed past the cop at the entrance to the living room and into the foyer of the house.

In the background, the lanky detective heard Mac telling Hawkes to begin processing the scene along with him. It was pretty obvious Stella was sticking to him to help him search the house for the Prym child. She was still walking with him as he headed for the back of the house, where the kitchen was.

"Don, you don't know that. The Body Hacker might have taken the boy with him. Or the body might be hidden somewhere else in the house."

"It ain't his style, Stella. He's not the kind to take _prisoners_, and he likes showin' off what he can do," Flack replied. "The kid's _alive_."

Stella abruptly halted in her steps a dozen feet away from the entry to the kitchen. She was gazing downwards at the floor.

"There's blood here."

The CSI knelt down to look closer at the dark stains.

"_Hand prints_. Way too big to be a four-year-old child's." Stella got her camera in her hands and snapped some photographs of the stains. Then, she lifted her head and shouted in the direction of the living room, "Mac! We got some blood hand and fingerprints here! Is there any blood on the hands of the Pryms?"

A few seconds later, Mac yelled, "There's some amount of blood spatter on Cassie Prym's hands, but not enough to leave any prints. Kevin Prym's has even less."

Flack's lips curved up slightly in a mirthless smirk. Stella didn't need to tell him what that meant. Fingerprints. It was possible fingerprints might have been left behind by whoever was murdered and had their hacked up parts left in the kitchen. It was also possible their serial killer might have actually left them instead. If they were lucky, the sonofabitch was careless this round, and they'd have their first tangible piece of evidence in their ongoing investigation. It was about damn time.

He cautiously tiptoed around Stella working on the floor and avoided any bloodstains he saw on the floor. That left him leaning against the wall right next to the entrance to the kitchen. He glanced down to see a circular, green carpet near his feet.

And it had a very clear print in the shape of an odd-looking knife on it, blood red.

"Stell. There's more blood here. On the carpet."

"Okay." Stella was dusting the dried stains with some black powder. "Don't touch it. I'll get to it as soon as I put the casting silicone on the prints here. Blood prints are more difficult to lift than the conventional ones."

Flack released a low sound of acknowledgement.

"I'm gonna go into the kitchen. Check out the other … bodies." He smirked at Stella raising her head and opening her mouth to speak, and he interjected with, "Don't worry, I won't touch anythin' without wearin' gloves."

The Greek CSI smirked softly back at him, then returned to her crucial work. Stella trusted him. And he'd been hanging around the CSIs for so long, he knew all the do's and don'ts by heart anyway.

Flack saw that the police officer was still standing in the foyer, watching Mac and Hawkes processing the living room with wide, dazed eyes.

"Hey!"

The cop's head spun in his direction.

"Did you and yer partner step on any of the blood stains over here?" Flack motioned with his head towards the floor leading to the kitchen.

"No, of course not." The officer approached him. "We made sure we were careful not to touch or step on anythin'."

"Where _is _yer partner?"

"He's - He's outside in the car. " The cop, who had almond-shaped, brown eyes, faltered for a second. "Pukin'."

Flack sighed heavily. "Okay. You go upstairs, and search the place again."

"But I'm tellin' ya, we looked _everywhere_, and there was no _kid_ -"

"_Search again_."

The homicide detective pivoted around and slinked into the kitchen without waiting for a reply. Not three steps inside, he was pulling out his handkerchief and shoving it against his lower face for the second time that night.

It was astounding how _clean_ the kitchen appeared. He had expected an extreme bloodbath. For a moment, Flack thought he was simply imagining the smell, or that it was wafting in from the living room. He walked around the stove and counter in the middle of the room to the far side of the kitchen, where the sink and cupboards were.

Flack had to avert his face for a minute or two from the grotesque spectacle of an evidently amputated arm and leg sticking out of the partially open dishwasher that was next to the sink. They were covered in crimson and mangled to the point Flack could hardly distinguish whether they belonged to a man or woman. Drying, red rivulets ran down the door and more blood pooled at the bottom of the appliance. The stench was overwhelming now. He had no idea at all how the killer had managed to cut the bodies up that brutally and not transform the whole place into a freaking war zone.

The homicide detective took a deep breath through his mouth, then removed the handkerchief from his face. Most times, he could endure the stink fine. But when it got bad, and he was worrying his head off about the safety of one of his best friends at the same time, it was all he could do to not throw up from both the smell and the anxiety.

He took shallow breaths while he reached inside his jacket to pull out his cel phone.

If his suspicions were wrong, he wasn't going to hear anything apart from the monotonous, beeping tone via his phone as he called either Agent Demille or Agent Ransome. And the body parts would belong to somebody else.

But if he was _right_ -

Flack scanned through his phone's address book, selected one of the FBI agents' numbers he obtained from Mac, and called it.

He grasped the phone in his hand, and waited.

For a mere instant, the kitchen was deathly silent.

Flack held his breath. Then, his blue eyes narrowed. His fingers tightened around his mobile phone till the plastic and metal dug into the flesh of his hand.

A muffled, high-pitched sound was emitting from the oven in the corner of the room. Like the dishwasher, it was splattered with blood and some other repulsive matter that made Flack's stomach roil.

He swallowed visibly. Took a couple of tentative steps forward towards the oven.

The noise became louder the closer he got.

Flack disconnected the call as he stood before the oven, putting it back into his jacket pocket along with his handkerchief. He was going to need the latex gloves he got from Danny if he wanted to open up the oven and look inside.

"Don, you okay in there?"

"Yeah." The homicide detective tugged on the gloves he took out from his trouser pocket. "You guys _really_ have yer work cut out for today, Stell."

Flack gripped the handle of the oven door with much care, making sure he wasn't touching any of the bloody parts. After shutting his eyes for a moment, he reopened them. He sucked in a ragged breath. His body involuntarily stiffened. Steeled himself for the worst.

The oven door unlocked with a clacking sound.

"Fuckin' hell."

The lifeless, glassy silver eyes of Agent Ransome stared at him from inside the black, metallic confines of the large cooking appliance. The agent's expression was a morbidly peaceful one. Eyelids half-lowered, thin lips arched up in a diminutive smile, appearing almost like he was contemplating the mysteries of the universe and had encountered the answers to all of them.

Agent Ransome certainly wasn't going to enlighten anyone anytime soon, not with his decapitated head crammed into one side of an oven and the rest of his body missing.

Flack's thick eyebrows lowered in an intense scowl. A small, black mobile phone was tucked under Agent Ransome's chin, and the LCD screen showed it had three missed calls. Flack's gaze shifted to the other side of the oven. There was no point in calling Agent Demille either, seeing that her head was next to her partner's. Thankfully, it was turned away from the oven door. He didn't need another bloody, chopped off head staring at him.

"Shit. Shitshit_shit_." Flack hastily closed the oven, stripping off the gloves and stuffing them back in his trouser pocket.

He strode out of the kitchen with wide steps, fighting back nausea. It was easy for him to not be spooked by murder scenes the majority of the time because he never knew the victims. It was something else when the mangled corpses belonged to somebody he actually knew before they died, regardless of whether he was well acquainted with them or not.

"Don?" Stella asked from where she knelt on the floor. She was sealing up white pieces of hardened casting silicone into evidence bags. "You alright? You look really pale."

"Yeah. _Yeah_." Gazing into the CSI's brilliant, concerned eyes grounded him and pushed the queasiness away. "I'm okay." He blinked, then said, "Where's the cop?"

Stella sat up onto her heels, twisting her head to the left where the staircase leading to the upper floor was. "He went upstairs. I think he's still up there."

The homicide detective was standing close enough to Stella that she was able to reach out and wrap her hand around his.

"Did you - did you find their son's body in there?"

Flack shook his head from side to side. "The bodies in there belong to Feds." He saw Stella's eyes widen at that, but he didn't add anything more.

Flack headed back to the living room, where Mac and Hawkes were still processing the scene. Hawkes was dusting a white mug that was on the couch, while Mac was photographing the corpses' wounds upclose.

"Mac."

The lanky detective waited until the hazel-eyed CSI was standing at the entrance to the living room beside him before uttering in a hushed tone, "Did Agent Ransome or Agent Demille give ya any contact numbers other than theirs? In case somethin' happened to them?"

The former Marine wasn't the head of his CSI team for nothing. The astute look he received indicated to Flack that Mac knew precisely what he was implying.

"You're sure it's them?"

Flack smirked joylessly. "They're missin' most of themselves from the neck down, but yeah, it's them. The Body Hacker got to them too."

"Shit."

Flack barely blinked at Mac's unexpected expletive.

"Well, that would explain why they hadn't been picking up my calls." Mac pursed his lips, deep in contemplation for a minute. "Something tells me their fellow agents are going to show up anytime now."

"Mac. The Prym kid is still missin'."

Mac opened his mouth to reply, and was sidetracked by the thumping of footsteps coming halfway down the staircase. Both Flack and the CSI swiveled to see the brown-eyed police officer leaning on the banister of the stairs. He was gazing at Flack with mild frustration.

"Look, I've searched _everywhere_, and there's _no kid_. No body, no blood, no nothin'." The cop straightened up and threw his hands up. "And I checked outside already too. _Nothin'_. If there's a kid, he ain't here."

Flack's lips thinned into a line. He stared hard at the police officer, then glanced at Mac with entreating eyes.

"He's _alive_, Mac. I know it."

The CSI remained silent, waiting for Flack to justify his declaration.

"This is the _Body Hacker _we're talkin' 'bout here," Flack said vehemently. "He's _not_ the kinda guy who leaves his work unfinished."

The homicide detective gesticulated with his hands towards the corpses of the Pryms in the living room. Hawkes was observing them with perceptive eyes from where he knelt by the sofa and the bodies.

"The kill is what thrills him, more than anythin', and judgin' from his past victims, he's got no qualms 'bout killin' little children at all. He isn't gonna just up and _leave_ without finishin' his usual routine, unless somethin' made him _stop_."

Flack paused and took a deep breath. When he spoke again, his voice was muted so only Mac could hear him.

"Mac, you've seen what he's capable of doin'. This is a guy who isn't afraid of anybody, not even armed FBI agents, and he's already knocked off _six_ a' them, if we're gonna count the two Feds sliced up in the kitchen."

The homicide detective raised his voice to let the others hear what he had to say.

"This is a guy who always finishes what he starts, no matter what, and if he did this time, the kid's body would be there with his parents' too, lookin' just like the previous victims. But he's _not_. In the previous murders, it was always one victim the Body Hacker had to deal with. This time, he had to deal with _three_. That's why he had to tie the Pryms up. Except maybe for the kid … I'm thinkin' the kid's not there with his parents 'cos the killer _didn't_ tie him up. And you can tell somethin' went _wrong_. Somethin' happened that forced him to kill Cassie Prym the way he did."

Flack slapped the back of his right hand on his left palm.

"My guess is, the kid tried to make a run for it after the Body Hacker attacked Kevin Prym. Kid's mom stopped him from goin' after her son, and he killed her quickly, 'cos the kid was gettin' away and he couldn't let that happen. So the kid ran outta the living room while his mom bought him some time. "

Flack strided up to where Stella stood.

"And for some reason, the kid ended up here, in front of the kitchen. Maybe he tripped, or maybe the Body Hacker caught up to him."

He gestured at the floor where the bloody hand prints were.

"But somethin' happened here. We know for sure he didn't kill the kid here, or even hurt him badly, 'cos there'd be a hell lotta blood here if that was the case."

Stella had a little smile on her lips. "You ever thought about becoming a CSI instead, Don?"

One end of Flack's lips arched up. "Once or twice."

"These hand prints definitely belong to an adult male. They're too big even for a woman," Stella said, returning to the current discussion. She went down on her knees once more to inspect the stains on the floor. "Seeing the way they're spaced out and how they're smudged … the person who made them was crawling backwards on his hands." She drew an invisible circle around one of the larger blood hand prints, partially smeared into a long streak. "He was crawling fast, like he was getting away from something."

The Greek CSI nodded her head towards the round, green carpet at the entry to the kitchen. "The blood stains start from there. The weapon he used was covered in so much blood, it left us a really obvious print of its shape. I don't know why he placed his knife there, but whatever spooked him … was on that carpet."

"Jamie Prym," Flack said in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Why would a _child_ scare the Body Hacker off?" Stella asked with a bemused frown. "And if it was Jamie Prym that did that, why _him_, and not the others who were murdered?"

"I don't know, Stell." Flack glanced around, making eye contact with both the police officer on the stairs and Mac, who stood at the living room entrance throughout Flack's elucidation. "I just know the kid's alive, and he's gotta be somewhere close by. He's _four-year-old _boy. How far can he get?"

"Okay, _okay_. It's possible the kid might have run outta the house to look for help. When Carlos and I arrived, the front door was closed, but it was unlocked. The back door in the kitchen, however, was still locked." The cop with the almond-shaped eyes threw up his arms in a huff. "I've looked everywhere _again_, a'right? There's no kid here. If you're right and the kid's alive, maybe he's already out there on the streets, 'cos I already looked outside 'round the house too. _No kid_."

"Well, have ya talked to the _neighbors_?" Flack couldn't help letting the frustration in his voice escalate.

The police officer ran a hand through his short, black hair. "No, not yet. Carlos became really sick after seein' the … mess in the kitchen." He gulped. "I - I didn't feel so good either."

Flack cursed under his breath, then said, "Okay, you and Carlos, go _talk_ to the neighbors." He pointed towards the front door with his thumb. "_Now_."

The cop displayed no defiance whatsoever at Flack's command, sprinting down the stairs and going out the house to get his partner without a word.

"_Rookies_," Flack muttered irately.

The homicide detective stormed up the staircase, adamant in his belief that the boy was still alive. He _had_ to be.

Flack wasn't sure if he could handle another dead child's eyes haunting him in his nightmares.

He was so entrenched in his cogitation, he didn't notice Stella and Mac exchanging concerned glances, nor heard Mac's, "Stella, go with him."

At the top of the stairs, Flack called out to the Prym child.

"Jamie?"

There were three bedrooms, the master bedroom to the right of the stairs, and two smaller rooms to the left. The doors were ajar for all rooms.

"_Jamie? _If you can hear me …" Flack proceeded to the master bedroom, sensing Stella's resolute gaze following him as she came up the staircase. "I'm Detective Flack, from the New York police department."

He pushed open the bedroom door, and stepped inside, blue eyes scanning every inch of the area.

"Jamie, it's _okay_ now. The bad guy's _gone_."

The bedroom was sparsely furnished. The double bed was tidy and didn't seem slept in. The only other furniture was a huge, wooden cupboard with sliding doors on one side of the bed. There were two luggage bags propped up against the wall on the opposite side. They had to belong to the Pryms.

"Don. I'll search the other two rooms, okay?"

Flack gave Stella a preoccupied nod.

He stood in front of the bed, listening to the CSI's receding footsteps. His lips gradually became downturned.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe the kid was already dead and was stuck in the dishwasher or washing machine in the kitchen downstairs. Maybe the Body Hacker really did do a one-eighty and kidnap the kid. Or maybe the killer murdered the kid and dumped the body somewhere else for them to find. Maybe -

Flack heard a soft but distinct cough.

He freezed up, his sense of hearing heightened. His eyes widened when he heard another nearly inaudible cough.

It was coming from the cupboard.

Flack placed a hand against one sliding door, then gently shifted it, exposing the closet's contents to view. There were some long coats, t-shirts and trousers hanging inside. Beneath them were two medium-sized hand luggage, a brown leather one and a red plastic one. He slowly moved and flattened the clothes to the side of the cupboard where it was open so he could better see what was in the other side.

There was a plain brown box with a lid on it. A bulky one, at two feet by three feet in measurement. It was certainly big enough for a four-year-old child to hole up -

This time, without a doubt, Flack heard a sniffle.

He slid the cupboard door shut, and moved the other door open. Now, there was nothing obstructing him from the covered box.

"Jamie?"

When there was no reaction, Flack warily reached out to grasp the lid on either side. He waited for a moment, not wanting to frighten the boy inside.

Little by little, he raised the thick cover.

It took Flack a minute to be able to speak. Seeing a small, terrified child curled up in a trembling ball in a box, spattered with blood all over, made his eyes water.

"Hey."

The brown-haired boy peeked timorously at him from between blood-stained fingers.

"Hey, it's _okay_. See?" Blinking numerous times to clear his vision, Flack quickly removed his badge from his belt and showed it to the child. "I'm a police officer, I'm a _good_ guy." He smiled in what he fervently hoped was a friendly, soothing manner.

Jamie stared at the badge for a while, then stared at Flack. He started to uncurl himself, sitting upright as soon as he realized Flack wasn't a threat.

"The bad guy's gone now, Jamie. It's _okay_," Flack murmured hoarsely.

The homicide detective drew his arms apart.

There was a single instant in which time seemed to stand still.

"Safe," Jamie said in a small voice.

The child tumbled out of the box. Straight into Flack's embrace.

"Mommy says I gotta call 911 … when bad things happen …" Jamie clung to Flack's midriff, burying his face in Flack's jacket and dress shirt. "I called 911, and I heard a man talking, and I thought it was the bad man, and I ran away and went to hide like mommy said … Safe …"

Flack wrapped his arms tightly around the little boy. His eyes were brimming again.

"_Shh_, it's okay. You're _safe_ now, that's right, you're safe now."

Flack was still stroking the child's head when Stella entered the room, mumbling words of comfort as he gazed into Jamie Prym's very large and green eyes.


End file.
